


Exorcism

by ladyofthesilent



Series: The Exorcism-Verse [1]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, First Time, major character death (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU after "Dead Man's Chest": After Calypso's wrath destroyed Port Royal, Elizabeth decides to return to England. With Governor Beckett still residing in Kingston, her only hope is a man hiding in the ruins of Port Royal ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Jack and Lizzie belong to each other, everything else belongs to the mouse
> 
> Beta: lj-user sparrows_swann
> 
> This was written in 2006, after "Dead Man's Chest", so "At World's End" is not considered. You could say this fic is based upon a hypothetical version of the movie, which ends with Port Royal being destroyed, Beckett becoming Governor, and Will becoming Davy Jones's replacement.
> 
> If available, I chose to keep the original author's notes that were posted along with the story at livejournal in 2006 and 2007.

So that was what Tia's – Calypso's fury had brought about. As far as the eye could reach, there was only chaos and desolation, a forlorn area, littered with stones and wood. From time to time, one could make out the remains of what had once been a house, broken furniture on the floor, covered with dust and subjected to the elements that would soon claim what had been spared by the horrible earthquake. Which was not much, considering what Port Royal had once been: The proudest city in the Spanish Main. And her home. Once, a long time ago when home had been more than just a word in a language she had been accidentally born to use. Home – a place she felt she belonged to, people whom she cared about and who cared about her. Home was no more. Elizabeth Swann had lost everyone she loved, first her father and then Will.

There, just around the corner – if there was still such a thing as a corner and a street – had been the blacksmith's shop where he had lived. The very place he had made the sword she was still carrying with her, where he had practiced ten hours a day, only to impress her. Where he had dreamed about her. All dreams had died, along with the brave young man she had once known. Loved. He was forever gone, not dead but still gone and out of her reach, sailing the seven seas on a cursed ship, without a heart to guide him back to where he belonged. He didn't belong with her anyway. She belonged with no one and no one belonged with her. Like the city of Port Royal, she who had once been full of life and hope was now empty and deserted.

Strangely, after all of this, after she had lost everyone and everything, she had reached her goal. Now she was what she had always dreamed she would be: Free. Free to go wherever she wanted to go and free to do whatever she wanted to do. But she didn't appreciate that freedom. Not anymore. For had she known that freedom could only be gained at such a disproportional cost, she would have done without.

Maybe you could only be free and delight in your freedom if you were an indifferent person, self-centred and bare of any morals. Like Jack. She looked at him, striding across this field of destruction with his head held high, mimicking the picture of an entirely pleased ruler finally plucking the harvest of his rule. Another town in ruins – why should he care? He who had neither cared about the battle they had lost at World's End, nor about the many deaths that had occurred. If he had been solemn and thoughtful these days, it was almost certainly because of that goddamned ship of his. Barbossa had got his hands on the Pearl again, leaving Jack and the remains of his crew with a junk which was, in fact – junk! Well, he'd probably start working on retrieving the Pearl as soon as he had brought her to Kingston, the governor's – Lord Beckett's - new residence. At least that favour had he been willing to grant her. Even former Commodore James Norrington would have done as much, had he lived.

But still, she didn't quite understand why they'd had to come here, into this town of death and destruction. Was there any use in challenging the gods and evoking unnecessarily painful memories? And even if there was no other way, he could have spared it to her; after all, he didn't seem to place value on her company anyway, rushing ahead as if she wasn't there.

"Jack! Jack, wait!"

"What is it, luv? Haven't had a little afternoon stroll for quite some time, he?"

"Where are we going? I thought we were here to meet someone. That friend of yours. Anyway, I don't see, why …"

He abruptly turned round, facing her with a fierce expression.

"Shhh …! The man we're going to meet is not exactly a friend of mine. So if you don't see the necessity of finding someone to take you to Kingston and get you a save and adequate passage to England, we can turn on our heels and leave this rather –", he paused and looked around, pulling a face as if some foul odour was in the air. "-uninspiring, wholly uninteresting and unpleasant place. That's perfectly fine with me. " He turned around and she thought he looked – well, serious. And though he smiled, there was a quiver in his voice and – could it be? – a strange glitter in his eyes which she would have taken for fear, had she seen it on any other man. But not on Jack Sparrow. Oh yes, Jack Sparrow feared those who threatened his life or interests, but he would not have come here if this were the case. After all, there was nothing in it for him. Well, maybe except for the fact that he would finally get rid of her.

Being honest, she couldn't say she'd miss him, either. There was nothing to keep them together. Nothing at all. And though there had been moments when he had made her believe he actually cared, she knew it was just an illusion, part of a legend like himself. When he had told her how much he admired her newly acquired skills in reading the charts, when he had fetched her from the Dutchman, tearing her away from Will, even when he had held her in his arms, comforting her, she had always felt that it wasn't real. He had made her part of his own story, another sea-turtle tied to his feet.

No, she'd rather rot in England than ever see this man again for no stranger could ever be more alien to her than Jack Sparrow.

"So what is it now?"

"Walk on," she replied, recognizing that there was no use in getting into an argument. He was in a strange mood today – strange even for him – and she couldn't help but be a little curious about where he was leading her.

When it finally dawned on her where they were going, they had already left behind the former warren of the town centre and reached the outskirts of Port Royal, once a blooming garden, harbouring the vast mansions of the rich. Though nature had already recaptured a large part of the formerly so well cultivated groves, hedges and flower beds, Elizabeth still recognized the familiar surroundings that had accompanied her home for so many years.

For some reason, Jack slowed his pace when they approached the iron gate – or what remained of it – that had once guarded the drive that lead up to the governor's mansion.

And then, they were only one step away … one step and there, behind the trees …. _No!_

There was no way she could bear this. How dare he take her home when home was no more?

She grabbed his arm, her fingers digging hard into the fabric of his worn blue coat and he got the message and stopped, eyes still focussed on the overgrown road ahead.

"Why are we going – there? Why this place?" she asked, almost hysterically, still pulling at his sleeve.

"Don't ask me," he whispered. "Please don't ask me."

And then, in the oddest of gestures, he freed his arm and took hold of her hand, clutching it so tightly it hurt. She was still looking at their joined hands in disbelief when he progressed, pulling her with him. His hand felt rough around hers and she instinctively tried to free herself, scared by his uncharacteristic behaviour. She had never felt she understood Jack Sparrow, but this side of him – this man who didn't dare to speak above a whisper, a glint of madness in his eyes – frightened her beyond belief.

But he ignored her struggle, dragging her behind him through where the gate had been; what remained was a deformed mass lying on the ground, soon to be gone and forgotten, claimed by the various grasses and climbers that had already coiled themselves around the iron bars. This gate had always seemed impregnable to her, too high and heavy for anyone to overcome or clear away. It had symbolised her fortress and her prison – and now it was gone, just so, in an instant as if a giant had ripped it out and carelessly thrown away.

It was grotesque, everything around them, her hand in his, a terrible, painful nightmare and she knew she'd wake in any second, covered in sweat and relieved to find it was only a dream. There was no way this could really be happening … life was not that cruel. And then, she saw it.

Apparently, the larger part of the front side had been unable to brave the earthquake. The pompous marble columns that had once kept up the entrance were nowhere to be seen, the same was true for what seemed like the entire roof. Elizabeth swallowed hard at the discovery that many of the rooms that had once been located somewhere in the centre of the house were now open to wind and weather, no longer a shelter from the rain but left at the mercy of its destructive powers.

The governor's mansion, once the most beautiful and proudest house in all of Jamaica was no more than a ruin.

She suddenly realized that they were no longer walking along but standing in the blazing afternoon-sun, eyes fixed on the sad remains of what had been the fairytale–castle of her childhood. And it was no longer Jack who was clutching her hand but the two of them holding on to each other while the world seemed to hold its breath for a long and painstaking moment. Even the birds in the trees and the light summer breeze seemed to still, mourning the loss of a past thought long forgotten.

"Welcome home," Jack said quietly, breaking the silence.

And if Elizabeth hadn't known better, she'd have thought he was talking to himself.

***

Elizabeth didn't let go of his hand when they finally continued on their way. It felt strange that of all the places they could have chosen to meet Jack's acquaintance, it had to be this one. Her father's house. Home – or what remained of it. The gravel drive that led up to the entrance had been well-tended when Weatherby Swann had been governor, but now, it was littered with garbage and broken off branches, the weed already lurking to reclaim its rightful place.

And she realized part of her was buried somewhere beneath it all, the part that had been a governor's daughter, the spoiled little girl that had wandered these grounds, dreaming of a prince to come and take her away. The prince never came, but Will did and the thought of him had tasted just as sweet.

During their engagement – that wonderful summer which had flown so fast – they had walked through this wilderness, a blooming garden back then, hand in hand and …. She flinched at the thought, realizing that she was still holding Jack's hand. Feeling caught, she blushed and withdrew it from his grip, wiping it on her waistcoat. What little self-respect she possessed told her that she should not trust this man, much less cling to him in a completely inappropriate manner.

He looked at her – almost accusatory, it seemed – but didn't speak. Instead, he diverged from the path and walked over to one of the many statues that had once lined the driveway. Only one, the image of a woman, had survived the earthquake; she was still resting on her pedestal, bereft of one arm but with a hauntingly sad expression on her beautiful face.

Strange, Elizabeth thought, that from all the statues in their garden, only Eurydice had been spared by nature's fury. How well she remembered the myth of Orpheus who had been so distraught by his beloved wife's death that his sadness even caused the gods to cry. He was given the chance to take her back from the underworld, but only under the condition that he would walk in front, not looking back until they had reached the land of the living. But in his anxiety, he turned around and Eurydice disappeared again, forever lost in Hades.

 _Maybe this was Hades, her own personal hell and Eurydice was already there to bid her welcome. And there was no one left on earth that would come to her rescue …_

Tearing herself away from the feeling of maddening solitude, Elizabeth glanced over to Jack who was staring at the statue as if he was trying to make her reveal some indefinable secret to him. When he reached out to touch the white marble, brushing lightly over Eurydice's shoulder, she felt like an intruder, watching an intimate gesture that was not meant for her eyes to see. She turned away and proceeded, leaving Jack to his silent dialogue with the lamentable dead.

The house had been visible for quite some time now and her eyes had already taken in the destruction, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock that ran right through her when she finally reached the portal.

Columns lying around in a grotesque arrangement, some of them still intact, others broken…the remains of the stairs leading up to the main entrance … the fragments of the front-door …

Something inside her still refused to make the connection; there was no way she had known this place before, no way she'd called it home. This was just a ruin, a place long deserted and forgotten.

 _There had to be another Port Royal, a town still alive where another house stood in the midst of a wonderful garden. And without doubt, another Governor Swann resided there, a Governor Swann still alive and he had a daughter, another Elizabeth Swann who …_

"Elizabeth!"

Somebody had taken hold of her shoulders, shaking her hard.

"Elizabeth, look at me!"

It felt like someone was trying to pull her out of this nightmare and she was grateful, giving in to the voice calling her from what appeared to be a far away place. Finally, it would be over, she would wake up in her bed and find it had only been a dream. She took a deep breath, eyes shut - but when she opened them again, there was only the horrible realization that her nightmare had become reality. There was Jack, standing right in front of her with a concerned expression on his face and there, just behind him, she could clearly make out the floor of the entrance hall. Which should have been impossible, considering that they were still standing outside the house.

And then, she finally understood what had happened, the truth crushing down on her with full of a sudden, she became aware of the merciless afternoon-sun that was burning down from a sky so blue it was almost unreal, cruel and beyond her enduring. Another look at the house, a surreal vision in the shimmering heat and she found she couldn't breathe anymore. Frantically, she started pulling on the collar of her shirt, trying to open the uppermost button but her fingers felt numb and her head too dizzy to coordinate any movement. Slowly, almost wonderingly, she realized she was going to faint, but before her legs could give away, she was pulled to another body and together, they sank to their knees.

The next thing she knew was that there were warmth and comfort surrounding her. She felt drowsy and exhausted, like she'd just returned from a long walk, but there was that quiet voice whispering incoherent words into her ear, and that hand caressing the back of her head, and somehow she knew that everything would be fine. She wanted to let go, wanted to give in to that wonderful feeling of hope and safety, when she felt something strange on her temple. A tickle...prickly, in a way. A beard.

"Jack!"

She pushed him away and jumped to her feet, knocking him over. He fell on his back, eyes wide open and with a startled expression on his face.

"So glad you're feeling better", he managed to say, gasping for air.

"What happened?"

He seemed to ponder on the question and she half-expected him to make some mocking remark on her fainting into his arms, but when his reply finally came, he appeared to be completely serious. "This place happened ...," he answered resignedly, closing his eyes for a few seconds. "It's all my fault, I shouldn't have brought you here."

She looked around, and though nothing had changed, she discovered she could actually bear the sight. It was as if she had distanced herself from it all while he had held her in his arms; in a strange and unusual way, he had helped her say goodbye, making her feel she was not alone in this and leaving her with the impression that for some mysterious, unfathomable reason he had shared her pain.

He was still lying on the ground, eyes closed, when she turned to face him again. And the feeling of a bond existing between them faded as abruptly as it had arisen; he was as far away as ever and suddenly it seemed ridiculous to think it could have been otherwise only a few minutes ago.

A few minutes? Christ, the blazing afternoon sun had already gone down considerably and it couldn't be long until sunset. How long had they been here?

And then, she suddenly remembered their reason for visiting this place.

"Jack, what about that man? Where is he?"

"Here, as I told you. So if you still want to meet him …." There was a trace of reluctance in his voice while he spoke, still on his back, almost as if he was pretending to be asleep.

"Of course I do! If this man will take me to Kingston … if there's only the slightest chance he will, I want to meet him."

"So be it." And with that, he got to his feet and walked over to her. "Sit down", he said, gesturing towards one of the broken columns lying on the ground like the fingers of a fallen giant.

"No", she replied fiercely, "I'll come with you!" There was no way she would stay here on her own, waiting for him to return.

"What? I am not going anywhere, luv." And with that, he took a seat himself and looked at her invitingly.

"You mean we should sit here and wait?" Oh, now she was really getting annoyed by his trying behaviour. "If that man came out on his own, he would have had plenty of time to do so. We have to look for him! At least that's what I am going to do!"

She turned on her heels and climbed onto the remains of the portal, stepping over the towering debris and into the entrance hall. It was cool and shadowy in there, almost like she remembered it. Only the floor was no longer clean-swept and shiny but dusty and littered with rubble and broken furniture. The stairs that led up to the first floor seemed to be still intact, as was the large fireplace and – oddly enough – the crossed swords that hung above the mantle.

Elizabeth had to pause for a moment, taking a deep breath and telling herself that nothing of this mattered anymore. The only thing she needed to do was find this man; after that, there would be no reason whatsoever for her to ever return to this place.

"Hello?" she shouted into the hall, a little hesitantly perhaps for fear part of the ceiling might come crashing down. But no one replied.

"Hello, is anyone in here?" More forcefully this time, but still to no avail.

"I don't want to interrupt your endeavours, Lizzie, but I fear you're only wasting your time," Jack shouted from outside. He was still sitting on the column and it didn't seem as if he was going to be much of a help. But he could at least tell her where she would find his friend or whatever this man was to him …

So she went out again, crossed her arms and planted herself in front of him.

"Jack, I want you to tell me where I can find him! Immediately!"

But the aggressive tone in her voice yielded nothing, forcing her to resort to well-tried means of persuasion. Drawing her sword, she put the blade to his throat, and hissed: "Where is he?"

Jack, however, didn't seem to be impressed. He lowered his eyes and looked first at the blade, then at Elizabeth, before his face was overtaken by an amused grin.

"Lizzie, I know dear William has been a bad influence, but I'd have expected you to think a little more … practically. Even if I decided not to tell you and you killed me – where's the use in it? With me dead, you'll never learn his whereabouts."

"The use in it is that I have the satisfaction you died from my hands!" And it was not until the words had escaped her lips that she realized what she had just said.

"Odd," Jack replied dryly, his grin fading. "I thought you already had that."

Feeling embarrassed, Elizabeth lowered her sword and put it back into the sheath.

"Jack, I …," she began, but he held up his hand to silence her.

"I know," he said quietly. "No need to discuss that now. And if you're a good girl and sit down, I promise I'll tell you everything you need to know."

When she finally gave in and sat down beside him, she couldn't help but think he looked – well, relieved. He had been reluctant to talk about this man from the day he had announced they were going to see him. They had been looking for a possibility to get her to Kingston which was not that easy, considering that Beckett had been made new governor and put a veritable price on her head, let alone Jack's. It was impossible to just walk into the city and get her a safe passage to England, even the attempt would have led to their imprisonment or, more likely, to their public execution.

And then, all of a sudden, Jack had pretended he knew a man who would do everything that lay in his power to get her out if she only went to see him in Port Royal. He never said how he knew this and Elizabeth did not ask him. What Jack Sparrow did not choose to tell himself was unquestionably a lie – which was also true for half of the stories he told on his own accord.

But given the fact he actually existed, this man could be her only chance and she had decided to take the risk, despite her misgivings for every piece of information coming from a pirate.

And now it seemed as if her fears proved to be justified. Something about this plan was decidedly not working out and she wanted to find out what it was, even if this meant she had to look for the truth in a story she expected to be full of lies and humbug.

"Will you promise to listen to me and NOT interrupt my story, no matter how little of it you are willing to believe?"

Well, if he was admitting in advance that she would not believe a word of it, she probably couldn't expect it to be of any use at all. And honestly, she had no intention to stay here any longer, listening to some fairy-tale.

"Really, Jack, I think we should leave. This is getting us nowhere …"

"You know … I know that I tend to be rather … economical when it comes to the truth. But this time – and if it's only for once, I assure you that I …," he paused and she saw that he was in some kind of dilemma, " … let's say I didn't lie. Savvy?"

He looked at her pleadingly and she found herself wondering if his talent as an actor had suddenly increased, for she was actually close to believing him.

"I promise that you will meet someone who'll take you to Kingston, right here and today. But first you have to listen to what I've got to tell you. You will understand everything – well, almost, but I just can't let you see him before you haven't heard his story. Then you'll see why I wouldn't call him my friend … and you may judge for yourself."

There was a long moment of silence between them and then, finally, Elizabeth nodded reluctantly. "Okay", she said quietly, "I'll give it a try."

"Well, so let's see how to begin this …"

***

And then he began to speak with a voice she had never heard him use, steady and almost bereft of its usual slur.

"This man … he was born on a ship, during a typhoon, to be precise. It sounds like it is made up, but I assure you, it is the truth. His father had been a respected scientist, friend to the king and part of an expedition to the heart of the Indian subcontinent. He brought with him a wealth of knowledge, a kaleidoscope of science – and a woman, a princess that had been destined to be burned along with her late husband. A barbaric, unnecessary and unappealing tradition but still, that is what they do. Luckily, he managed to rescue her, became vexed by her beauty, married her -," he smirked, "- and intended to take her with him to England. Alas, she never went to see that most civilized of nations."

Elizabeth couldn't help noticing the cynicism in his voice, wondering where he was going with this strange tale. Why was he telling her this? She opened her mouth to ask him whether he had ever been to England so he could assess the country's degree of civilization but he simply ignored her, maybe he had even forgotten about her presence for he was staring into the evening sky as if trying to follow its change of colour with his very eyes.

"Being a friend of the king, the scientist had been appointed governor of Port Royal and so he left India with his wife nine months pregnant. The typhoon caught them right off the coast and it was in that night while every sailor was praying for his very life that she gave birth to a son. The infant lived but there was nothing that could be done to save his mother."

"So the new governor reached Port Royal with a broken heart and a child that seemed to him like a punishment of the gods, growing more similar to his mother with each passing day. But while he wanted nothing more than to hide his son from the cruel world out there, locking him up in the very house on the doorstep of which we are sitting at the moment, the boy himself spent hours and hours with the books he found in his father's library. He travelled to India and Africa; saw Cape Horn and the jungle, long before he ever set foot on a ship. Hecopied charts and questioned the African slaves in his father's service, longing to see with his own eyes what he only knew from hearsay."

"And then, one day, he went to his father to tell him that he wanted to be a sailor. No more Latin, Dante or Shakespeare, just the waves, the sunset and the taste of adventure."

Shakespeare – the name of the great poet coming from his very lips, the lips of a pirate, made her startle. How could he know about Shakespeare – about Dante or Latin?

And as if he'd read her thoughts, he went on:

"I think it was Hamlet who said: _This above all - to thine own self be true_. And this man, the governor's son, felt that the life he led was just a lie, a prison that had been built around him and that he needed to escape so he could finally breathe again. But he did not understand – back then – that his father's greatest fear was to lose him, just like he had lost his mother and so there was no understanding but only disbelief and hate when he heard his wish declined. He raged against his father's decision, called him names and behaved in the most outrageous manner, but it didn't help him. He was sent to his room without supper and that night, he decided to take control of his own destiny. When everyone had gone to bed, he climbed out of the window, took a horse from the stables and fled, passing the gate without anyone noticing."

He paused for a moment and Elizabeth watched him suck in his lower lip, an insecure, almost child-like expression on his face. For a long moment, he seemed to consider his words, then continued with his voice calm and collected.

"There was a schooner in the harbour that night, leaving for China to fetch some tea and opium. The boy changed his name so the captain wouldn't recognize him as the governor's son and asked to be taken into the crew as whatever they needed. The captain who had a good heart thought the boy on his flight from some unfortunate events and took him in. "

"When the governor found out his son was gone without only a note left, the deplorable boy was already scrubbing the deck of a ship heading for some faraway shore. It was hard work and quite a change from the cosy life he had known at home. There was many a day when he regretted everything he'd done, when he wanted nothing more than to return to his father's arms and beg for forgiveness – but he was proud, too proud to admit he'd made a mistake and still too proud give up what he'd just begun. And so he cried his heart out every night, because he was scared, homesick and alone."

"One day – it must have been not long before they reached the Chinese coast, he realized that he had no more tears to shed. The rolling of the waves no longer made him sick, it felt like a part of him, as did the salty air, the fluttering of the sails and the cries of the doves. And before he set foot on land again, he had fallen in love with the sea."

At these words, Elizabeth let out a snort and peered at him dismissively.

"What's the matter?" Jack asked, somewhat irritated by her unwelcome interruption.

"I don't know if you ever noticed, but every story the likes of you happen to tell features someone falling in love with the sea. So if you added that bit to impress me, I have to inform you that your plan failed miserably. I've had enough of Davy Jones, lately …"

"And by the way, everyone you know seems to be in love with objects, concepts or liquors, so I really don't see why you feel you have to mention this specifically when talking about that man."

Jack looked at her as if she had just made a really stupid and utterly unnecessary remark, then replied with some venom in his voice:

"You'll see."

Again, he seemed to collect his thoughts before he proceeded.

"The years passed and he became a knowledgeable sailor, well respected by captain and crew and – so they told him – born to be a captain himself. His time came with the rise of the East India Trading Company. One day, it was brought to his attention that an agent of the company had arrived in Bridgetown. Taking the risk, he gave up his previous position and introduced himself to Cutler Beckett. And now you'll understand why it is I can't call him my friend. He was utterly naïve, stupid and full of himself – in short, he was perfect prey for anyone looking for an idiot to do the dirty work."

"So convinced was he of his own abilities that he didn't even become suspicious when Beckett spontaneously offered him the captaincy of a ship named "The Wicked Wench". He was to sail to the West African Gold Coast and fetch some unknown but apparently very valuable cargo – most importantly, without asking any questions."

"Well, he wasn't really interested in anything as long as he got a ship and a crew and so he took up the assignment and did what he was told. There were several men on board to take care of the cargo - they kept away from the rest of the crew and no one seemed to know what was really going on. But no one seemed to care, anyway. They did get quite a decent sum of money and that was enough to keep their interest in the assignment at minimum. Well, obviously, it wouldn't have been too difficult to guess what they were going to transport – anyone in possession of anything only slightly resembling brains would have known immediately."

"Maybe I would be more sympathetic to our man, could I be sure he had been naïve enough as to be completely unsuspecting. But he knew and he knew it all along – still, he miraculously managed to pretend he didn't. It was not difficult, though. Sometimes, it's enough to close your eyes and keep your ears shut. After a few days out at sea, the captain had made friends with another crewmember – an Englishman by the name of Bill Turner and …"

Elizabeth had become completely mesmerized by the story by then, but the well-known name made her sit up in an instant.

"Bill Turner? Bootstrap? Will's father? But he told Will he left England to go pirating …"

"He did?" Jack, who had consciously avoided looking at her, suddenly turned his head and she almost backed away when she saw the haunted expression in his eyes. However, he seemed to pick up courage fairly quickly and a somewhat forced grin spread across his face. "How very noble – but I tend to forget that the whelp must have inherited that unfortunate trait from someone."

"Don't you dare talk about him like that!" She suddenly felt enraged. How could anyone be so completely unpredictable? At one moment, he behaved and talked almost like a normal person, at another, he was back to his old ways, an arrogant grin on his lips and that drunken slur in his voice … it was unnerving to think that this was the same man that had worn such a pained expression on his face only seconds ago.

"Not meant to offend you, luv! As it is, I can assure you that Bill Turner would never have left his family for anything as self-seeking and immoral as piracy." His face was a mere grimace now, an expression of utter ridicule distorting his handsome features and Elizabeth suddenly realized she wanted to slap him. "No, if you're looking for the one to blame for the whelp's sad childhood, you have to look some place else …"

"Jack, what the hell are you talking about?" Elizabeth knew she was yelling but she didn't care. There was no one around to hear them, anyway.

"You don't understand, do you?" He turned away from her and jumped to his feet.

"No, in fact, I don't! Which, obviously, is not my fault!"

"Alright!" He whirled around, his dreadlocks and trinkets framing his face in a grotesque, lion-like manner. "Alright! Listen … I'm gonna say it like it is and you're not gonna interrupt me, savvy? Oh, and no way I will tell the following ever again …" He looked at her sharply for a second or two and Elizabeth instinctively ducked her head. " **It was me** – do you hear me? I made Bill Turner a pirate … he never wanted to be one, he wanted to return to his wife and to bloody Will and I am sure that this is exactly what he'd have done … but then, he had the misfortune of meeting me along the way."

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked, confused.

He didn't answer right away but walked over to what remained of the mansion's outer wall. It was almost dark now and she could only see his silhouette taking down the hat and leaning his forehead against the wall.

"When we reached the fort where we were to fetch our cargo, Bootstrap and me seized the opportunity to explore the scenery. None of us had ever been to Africa before and everything we saw was new and exciting. We stayed away for three days, sleeping under the starlit sky, and when we returned, the "Wench" was already fit for departure. Beckett's men had taken care of the cargo and there was nothing left for me to do apart from delivering it safely to the Caribbean. It should have been easy but it didn't even take me 24 hours to find out it was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Except for Beckett's men – there were three of them-, no one went to the hold to see what was happening there, but there was no way to escape the screams, the penetrating smell and the corpses that were thrown overboard every night."

"After a week or so, my curiosity got the better of me. When I saw that the man guarding the entrance to the cargo hold had fallen asleep, I sneaked past him to see for myself what I already knew. But not even the most sinister premonition could have prepared me – or anyone – for what I had agreed to transport. There were African people – many of them, men, women and even children, chained together like cattle."

"I could try to describe the smell of death, the foul air, the cries and the desolation in their faces, but even the most horrific details could not make you imagine the terror in their eyes … I felt the sudden urge to run away … I couldn't bear the sight. But I couldn't turn away either. It was like something forced me to look at them until the image was forever branded in my memory, an eternal punishment for my self-seeking and thoughtlessness. "

"I got sick and rushed back on deck. Then I locked the door to my cabin and drank myself into oblivion. I think that at this point, my decision was already made, but it took me three more days until I went to Bootstrap and told him I had seen the cargo and intended to take it back to Africa. He tried to talk me out of it but I wouldn't listen … poor Bill, he didn't fear for himself but for his family; still, he agreed to help me. With the aid of several more crewmembers, we managed to overcome Beckett's men – the ones that were responsible for the slaves in the hold – and locked them up in the empty cell reserved for mutineers and stowaways. We then went into the hold and freed the slaves from their chains … there were so many … many more than I remembered from my first visit …really, I still can't believe they fitted in there … "

"They didn't know what was happening and we had to prevent some of them from jumping over the rail when they found out they were allowed to go on deck. They were unbelievably scared – I mean, who wouldn't, in their situation?"

"Luckily, one of them understood and spoke some English and I explained to him that it was all a stupendous error and that I would take them back to Africa immediately. To my immense surprise, he didn't seem to like the idea all that much. As it turned out, he feared they might be enslaved again as soon as they stepped on land, possibly even by their own people and sadly, I think he may have been right. Frankly, I didn't know what to do and my crew was already getting anxious. There was no other way. So the "Wench" kept on heading towards the Caribbean, but still, I couldn't get myself to deliver them to Beckett …"

He paused for a moment and took a few steps further into the shadowy darkness.

"So I brought them to Tia's … all of them. Some are still there, you may have seen them … they are free but I suspect they don't have anywhere else to go. As soon as I knew they were safe, I sailed the "Wench" to Bridgetown and intended to hide from Beckett. It was a stupid plan and of course, I was caught. He kept me for days and tried to make me tell him the whereabouts of his cargo …"

It was so dark now Elizabeth could barely perceive the outline of his figure. He seemed to stand perfectly still, but there was something in his voice that made her believe he was actually shaking. She was still sitting on one of the columns, her body tense in anticipation of the blow that she knew would come.

"After some time … it felt like ages which I'd spent in some dark and mouldy cell, I was taken to Beckett's office … I was blinded by the light and he didn't even speak to me …he had three people holding me down when he branded the "P" into my skin ... the pain was excruciating … I fainted … or at least I believed I did, but then, I realized I was awake and lying on the floor … and there was that pistol on the drawer … no one saw me taking it … and I shot. Unfortunately, I didn't manage to kill him, but as I learned later, I deprived him of some pretty important parts of his body … I didn't care back then. There was suddenly a big tumult, everyone was swooping down on Beckett … I don't know how I got out … I was nearly keeling over from pain … my arm was throbbing and I felt sick … no one seemed to follow me but I kept on running … they probably thought I'd die anyway. And really, with the brand fresh on my skin, I was lucky it was Bootstrap and not some member of the Royal Navy who found me. "

"I felt like I was neither alive nor dead, but we couldn't stay in Bridgetown … so Bill dragged me onboard the "Wench" and we escaped. At least we thought we did … of course, Beckett found out and soon we had seven ships of the East India Trading Company chasing us. Finally, after two days, they caught up with the "Wench" … there was nothing we could do. There was fire …everywhere fire … and we jumped into the sea. We held onto some wooden plank while we watched the "Wench" go down and Beckett's agents bring their ships about … they obviously thought us dead and sometimes … sometimes I think we really should have died that night."

"But there was the family Bootstrap longed to see again … and a world I still wanted to discover. I just couldn't die…not yet. And then I remembered an old legend that Tia had once told to me … truth be told, I had never believed that anything like the Flying Dutchman and its cursed captain existed, but in my despair, I called on Davy Jones."

"As you very well know, he existed, he appeared and I managed to make him raise the "Wench" from the depths for me … in exchange for my soul which I was to deliver to him in thirteen years time. I guess that back then, I was like all young people … thirteen years appeared to me more than a lifetime and actually, I thought that he would have forgotten about it when time came. Well, you know the end of THAT story …"

"What happened to Bootstrap and me after I had made the deal with Jones is quickly told: We found ourselves back onboard the "Wench" which was quite a bit faster than we remembered it. I must have been something of a mess because we first went to Tia where I spent several weeks recovering. I tried to convince Bill to go back to England – I really did. But he said that after we had stolen cargo from the East India Trading Company and commandeered one of its ships, we could as well be pirates. And that was what we did. We rechristened the "Wench" - that's how the "Black Pearl" was born – and then headed for Tortuga to get a crew."

"We met Barbossa who told me he'd help us if I made him my first mate …well, stupid mistake, but I really didn't have much of an idea how piracy worked and figured we could need an instructor. One of the African women in the bayou had braided my hair and with the scarf wrapped around my forehead and the beard no one who knew me before would have recognized me. The only thing I had to do now was settle into my new life as a pirate … and I swore to myself that it should be nothing less than a legend …"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Port Royal was actually destroyed by an earthquake in 1692, subsequent rebuilding failed because of several hurricanes during the first half of the 18th century. The governor's residence was moved to Kingston, following the destruction of the city.
> 
> I know that this story ignores the fact that Jack's father is a pirate, but I guess one could argue that he turned pirate after ending his career as governor of Port Royal. There'll be some more about him in the second part of "Exorcism".


	2. Chapter 2

Though Jack had spoken barely above a whisper, his last words seemed to echo in the darkness before the heavy cloud of silence finally alighted on the ruins of Port Royal and its visitors. A light breeze had come up and Elizabeth allowed herself to give in to its comforting caress, letting it sweep through her hair and cool her heated cheeks. The moon had claimed its rightful place in the sky, almost at full circle now, and its round, childlike face seemed to watch the misfortunes of those on earth with overt curiosity. The fallen columns shone pearly white in the pale moonlight, a surreal vision in an enchanted garden where imagination and reality had just met in a particularly painful nightmare.

Elizabeth looked at the outline of Jack's figure, still motionless in the shadows and suddenly felt overwhelmed by yearning and hatred. Oh how she wished she could believe him, could believe that he was indeed a good man, that they were together in this and that she was, after all, left with someone who understood her.

She longed to forgive and be forgiven, felt her soul needed some kind of exorcism to cast out the demons of the past - the fear, the hopelessness and the guilt - but she just couldn't let Jack's lies lead her into dangerous delusions again.  
She had allowed herself to trust him far too many times now and it had never done her any good. He'd lured her to Port Royal with the most audacious bunch of lies one could even imagine, only to tell her another one of his stories, so enormous in its obvious falsehood she almost couldn't believe he'd actually dared to go as far.

It was impossible to say what he hoped to achieve with this, maybe it didn't even matter. Elizabeth had given up on the attempt to understand Jack Sparrow ages ago, but this time, she was completely lost for any kind of explanation, no matter how far-fetched or improbable. How could he even think she'd believe him to be the son of a governor when she knew he was nothing but a despicable pirate? They didn't have anything in common, him and her, and to hope otherwise would be unbelievably foolish, experience had taught her as much. Still, he'd done it again, tricked her into trusting him until it couldn't be overlooked anymore that it was nothing but a fraud.

She hated herself because she had been stupid enough to be taken in by Jack Sparrow, but hate was even too feeble a word for the rage she felt towards him. Leaving her place on the column, she took a few steps towards him, eyes fixed on his back and spat: "You … you're the most miserable, disgusting creature I've ever met."

Though she was sure he must've heard her, he didn't turn round which only fuelled her anger. She strode over to his side and grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to face her. Their bodies were only inches apart and despite the darkness, she thought that he looked tired and exhausted, his features as motionless and resigned as she'd ever seen them. And for only the tiniest fraction of a second, she wondered whether this time, she was actually doing him wrong.

"So you don't believe me," he said, his voice almost blank.

"Of course I don't!" And suddenly, all the frustration, the disappointment and the rage of the past few hours – _no, the past few months!_ – welled up inside her and she couldn't help but grab the chance to throw them into his face. "You lied to me in a most outrageous manner, you tricked me into coming to this awful place, you gave me hope when there has never been only the slightest chance I could finally get out of this –" She gesticulated around wildly, yelling even louder. "And now you want me to believe a completely preposterous story which features you as some sort of prince in disguise, misunderstood from the day you were born? Then let me tell you something: I understand you, now I really do! You are a liar and a cheat and if … if I'd never met you, my life would not be such a mess!"

She glanced at him fiercely, convinced her words had stung him and indeed, when he moved forward, the moonlight revealed a face so hard and frenzied she instinctively backed away from him. But it was too late. With an almost cat-like movement, he darted at her and got hold of her arm, digging his fingers so deeply into her skin that she screamed from the sudden pain of it.

"Fine!" he shouted, dragging her with him despite the struggle she was putting up. "Let's have another look at that mess of yours and then we'll see how much you really understand …"

"Jack! Jack, please …" Elizabeth realized she was begging him but this was not the situation to worry about her dignity. She found herself at the mercy of a madman and though she tried to stay calm and think clearly, she couldn't fight the rising panic when he forced her to climb over the columns and into the entrance hall. There was no one here to come to her rescue, their only company a man who was nothing but a ghost in the mind of a lunatic, and she screamed herself hoarse, hoping against hope that a miracle would happen.

And then, their feet stepped onto the dust-covered floor and suddenly, time stood still and the memories hidden beneath the moonlight-flooded marble tiles surfaced, surrounding them until they found themselves wrapped up in a blanket woven from a thousand different faces, a million words and an overwhelming feeling of loss. Elizabeth couldn't move, not even when Jack's grip around her arm loosened and the mad glitter in his eyes disappeared; still, she wasn't afraid anymore.

The spell had been broken and she knew it instantly when she looked into his face, soft and melancholic against the invading night-sky, eyes wandering over the scenery as if trying to decide whether it was real or just his imagination. His lips moved quietly, forming words and sentences that could have equally been curse or prayer – maybe it didn't even matter, for the only thing that mattered now was the hidden truth that had come to lie bare. It was in his eyes, in the expression he wore on his face and in the slight uneasiness that crept upon her; and suddenly, she felt like she needed to apologize to him.  
Her eyes were still fixed on him when he turned to look at her and though she couldn't stand his gaze, she found it impossible to turn away.

" 'm sorry," she bubbled out, not quite realizing she was speaking at all.

And then burst out with laughter when she found they'd said the words almost simultaneously. Relief was washing over her like a cooling flush of water on a hot summer's day and she just couldn't stop laughing, knowing perfectly well she was being hysterical, but unable to do anything about it. Elizabeth was shaking so hard she had to reach for Jack's shoulder to support herself and it wasn't long until she felt him doing the same thing while they were both splitting their insides, finally relieving the strain and tension that had accompanied their relationship for so long now. It felt so good they hardly made any effort to calm down and when Elizabeth lowered her head to lean against Jack's shoulder, she was gasping for air and clutching her sides, trying in vain to ease the stabbing pain.

"You're alright?" he asked and straightening herself, Elizabeth stepped back to take a look down her still aching body.

"Well, I guess I am …," she finally replied, still grinning, while she waved her arms in front of his face to show they were still attached to her body. It was a childish gesture, completely inappropriate, to be sure, but how else was she to face a life as absurd and unpredictable as this one?

 _Daft like Jack,_ she thought, remembering Gibbs' words when she had suggested a particularly risky manoeuvre during their flight from the Royal Navy. Which, on second thought, wasn't such a bad thing, after all.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, brushing his thumb lightly over her bruised arm.

"Probably not more than I deserved … . I suppose I did hurt you as well."

He blinked and bent his head, acknowledging her words before brushing them aside with a conciliatory smile that made her feel pleasantly warm inside.

"Come with me?" It was a deliberate, almost shy question and she was already reaching for his outstretched hand when he drew it back and let himself sink to the floor.

"Jack, what …," Elizabeth began, somewhat irritated, but Jack was quick to allay her confusion.

"I hadn't expected our little trip to last that long. Unfortunately, we can't take the moonlight with us, so I suppose for further explorations, we need at least one candle, better two … or a candelabrum, whatever you can find underneath this … heap of rubble."

"Me? And what are you going to do? Take a little nap?"

"Well, if you insist, I'll go and look for the candles. In the meantime …" He began rummaging in the pockets of his coat and took out a little box which she remembered to have seen before. When they'd been marooned on the island, he had used it to … _oh, well_ , she'd better go looking for the candles.

" … you could make a little fire." Grinning, he held out flint and steel to her, but she had already turned away to see what the earthquake had left of Governor Swann's household effects.

***

When she returned several minutes later with a candle and what looked like the remains of one possibly still applicable, Jack was already holding a piece of charred cloth the end of which was glimmering red in the semi-darkness of the moonlit handed him the candles and watched him holding them to the cloth until the wax melted; then he carefully blew over the ensemble and by that miraculously set the wick on fire.

"Where did you learn that?" she asked, still looking at him in silent fascination while he lit the second candle.

"The cook showed me when I was a lad. He gave me flint and steel and I tried until I was able to do it on my own. It's actually quite simple once you get the hang of it."

He handed her the candles and put the charred cloth as well as flint and steel back into the little box before tucking it safely into his pocket.

"Where are we going?" Elizabeth asked while she watched him getting to his feet.

"I want to show you something."

She handed him one of the candles, wondering how long this mysterious journey was going to last. The crewmembers that had stayed behind on the ship were probably already getting nervous because of their longer-than-expected absence and she reckoned Gibbs would turn up any second now, but Jack didn't seem to care.

She wanted to ask him whether they should return to the hidden bay they'd anchored in, but when she looked at him, she saw that he was holding up the candle and muttering under his breath, obviously trying hard to retain a memory long forgotten.

"Come," he finally said, heading for the rear part of the entrance hall the moonlight could not reach. He stopped in front of a passage that had once led to a corridor which … _oh! So that was what he wanted to show her!_

And while they climbed over the debris that blocked the doorway, she wondered why she hadn't thought about the portrait in the parlour before. Probably because she had never wasted a conscious thought on it – and because the parlour hadn't exactly been her favourite room in the house. It was a place to receive guests, have tea and play the cembalo, which perfectly explained why she hadn't spent too much time there. Still, she should have remembered _her_ , and if it was only because of the peacock feathers in the background the colour of which she had marvelled at as a child.

Amazingly, the corridor was almost intact, though the pictures had fallen off the wall and fragments of plaster were covering the floor. Jack didn't say anything, but she could hear him muttering to himself, incomprehensible words that might have created an attempt to name the rooms they were passing. She got a glimpse at the staircase that led down to the cellar, almost entirely blocked now, and the vast oak door to the library seemed to be missing entirely, most likely lying on the floor and covered by dust and rubble. It was a scary place to be, only lit by the sparse light of the candles, and she sighed in relief when they finally reached the door to the parlour which was still partly held in place by the door hinges.

She remembered the room as vast and flooded with light and even now, with the extensive window-front missing, their candles were almost rendered useless by the moonlight coming in from outside. As far as she could see, the furniture was completely destroyed and what there might have been left of the silver candelabras and gilded clocks had probably been taken away by the horde of plunderers which undoubtedly had invaded the city only hours after the earthquake. Still, the atmosphere was oddly familiar and Jack seemed to feel the same, for he was holding his breath while his eyes took in the room in a silent expression of recognition.

He knelt down and brought up a piece of cloth which had once belonged to the cushioning of one of the armchairs.

"Your father didn't have the furniture changed," he stated quietly.

"No. My mother was already dead when we came here and he thought that it was up to a lady to arrange the parlour. So the room remained unchanged when we moved in, and he probably expected me to refurnish it one day. As you can see, it never happened."

"What a pity," he replied, pulling a face. "Don't you think the yellow tapestry was madly annoying? Never quite fitted with the red carpeting …"

Elizabeth looked at him in complete amazement, then couldn't help but burst out with laughter. "I wouldn't have thought you the type to care too much about colours," she replied, examining his worn blue coat, the torn shirt, almost grey from age and dirt, the pink scarf on his belt and the red one wrapped around his forehead. What an odd ensemble to wear for someone who took offence at the colouring of the tapestry in a parlour he probably hadn't frequented at all!

Feeling her eyes upon him, he looked down at himself and stated with an over-exaggerated seriousness that almost made her laugh out loud again: "Pink is the perfect match for dark blue and the red adds very nicely to the overall picture. Only a completely ignorant person could fail to recognize that!"

"I never cared much about fashion. In fact, most of my dresses were bought by my father."

"That's pretty obvious, if you ask me." Now it was his turn to let his eyes wander over her body, clad in breeches, a simple white shirt and a brown waistcoat. "But luckily, now you've met me and I can tell you that it should be a dress or nothing …"

"… and you happen to have no dress in your cabin," she finished the sentence for him, grinning and surprised at their sudden intimacy. Back in the days when her world was still intact, she had always enjoyed their sparring, but it wasn't until then that she realized how much she had actually missed it.

"Maybe I have."

"So you're unwilling to give it to me because you fancy wearing it yourself?"

"Only when I can't avoid it …"

At that, she playfully slapped his side which made him jump backwards. He stumbled and almost fell, but got hold of the mantelpiece and managed to support himself.

"If we're not going to be a little more careful, we'll probably set on fire what's left of this house in no time," he gasped when hot wax tripped on his wrist, suspiciously eying the candle. "So let's better get back to what we actually came here for. I think I may just have tripped over it."

He handed her his candle and sank to his knees, rummaging in the rubbish below the mantelpiece, until he was able to pull out a rather large golden frame which held a torn canvas in place. Elizabeth knelt down next to him and though she already knew what he intended to show her, she was completely astonished when she finally looked into the face of the Indian princess. The canvas was damaged, but even the bad condition of the portrait couldn't do any harm to her intoxicating beauty. She looked delicate, almost fragile, and the expression she wore on her elegant face was one of haunting sadness. Her resemblance with Jack was so striking that Elizabeth found it almost impossible to believe she'd never recognized it before. The big black eyes that dominated her features were Jack's, as were the high cheekbones and if his hair hadn't been braided, it would probably have been like hers, black, shimmering and soft.

She looked at the peacock feathers in the background, rendering the princess's appearance even more exotic and mystical, and found that she didn't know what to say.

"How did you know it was still there," she finally asked. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, but she felt she had to break the silence which had become almost menacing to her.

"Pintel and Ragetti," he answered simply. "You'll probably recall their _visit_. I overheard them talking about the house while on the Pearl and took up the opportunity to ask some innocuous questions."

 _Oh yes_ , she remembered the day when Barbossa and his crew – cursed, back then – had invaded Port Royal to kidnap her because they thought her to be the daughter of Bootstrap Bill Turner. It was the day it had all begun, the day she'd never forget in all her life. The day _he_ 'd pulled her out of the sea … but no need to think about that now!

Forcing her mind back to the portrait, she asked: "Why does she look so sad?"

"My father had it painted after her death. He might have made a sketch from his memory and given it to the painter, or something like that. I have always wondered whether her face carries his sadness rather than her own."

"She's still beautiful. He must have loved her very much …"

"He did," Jack said while he took one of the candles from her hands and got to his feet again, turning away from the picture as if he couldn't bear to look at it any longer.

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know." His voice was quivering again and Elizabeth immediately sensed that her question had struck a nerve. "Probably dead, and again, I can't say I am not to blame for that as well. When Beckett thought me dead, he sent him a letter, informing him that his son had perished in a storm while on service for the East India Trading Company. My father, however, didn't believe him, who knows for what inconceivable reason. He took some of the Royal Navy's best men and sailed off to find me. As far as I know, he was last seen off the coast of Madagascar , then he disappeared along with the ship and everyone on board."

"How strange …"

"Not at all. They were probably caught by a storm, or maybe they had an unfortunate run-in with a horde of pirates. I got to hear the story in some opium den in Singapore and the man who told me was beyond good and evil, so I cannot even say how much of the part I've just told you is true … ."

"My father died because he wanted to find me, so I guess we have something in common here."

"Well, I guess we have." And oddly enough, he smiled at her. It was a sad smile, but there was something incredibly comforting to it, almost a silent offer to share the burden they both had to carry, and she felt actually grateful for it, even though she knew she could never accept it. Neither from him nor from anyone, because she deserved no compassion and no forgiveness, not after all she'd done and all that had happened.

Suddenly, the darkness that had fled her heart during the past few minutes – _minutes she'd spent with him_ – overtook her again and she found she couldn't return his smile. Wordlessly, she turned her face away and looked indifferently at the sad remains of the cembalo her father had brought from Italy. It had been a birthday present and she'd actually tried to play, but never succeeded. In the end, the instrument had been completely out of tune and now the earthquake had silenced it forever.

"What about your mother?"

She startled at the sound of Jack's voice, but continued to stare at the cembalo while she answered tonelessly:

"She died when I was five. One day, she started coughing and the next, she was dead. At least that's how I remember it, but of course, she must have been ill for much longer than that. I don't even recall her voice."

"You don't talk about her, I assume."

"No … ." She unconsciously shook her head.

"You've neither talked about your father, nor about Will," he stated as a matter of fact. "Not until today."

 _Not until today …_

The words echoed in her head until she came to realize that it was actually true. When she had learned that Will had stabbed the heart, she had been distraught enough to take some of the comfort Jack had offered her, but after that, she had neither cried, nor did she ever mention Will or his fate again. She'd mourned his death, she still did and it was hard to imagine the pain would ever stop, but what hurt the most, even more than the loss in itself, was the feeling of indescribable guilt.

She had betrayed Will, betrayed him to save him, but in the end, it didn't really make a difference. After she had sent Jack to his death, she'd found that she could not trust herself, let alone anyone else trust her. She had loved Will, but it would never have been enough, never would have been what he longed for and, more importantly, what he deserved. He had tried to reach her, but she wouldn't let him and in the end, he saw himself rejected and turned to what Tia Dalma had once called his _touch of destiny_. He might have kept his promise to his father, but there was no denying in the fact it had been her coldness and incapability to show she cared that had made him stab the heart in the end.

Sometimes she wondered whether she was emotionally dead, as dead as all the loved ones she felt unable to mourn openly. Yet, today, something had confronted her with it all. This place, of course, all the memories connected to it, all the memories of her father and Will, of another life – _and Jack_ … yes, it was Jack's share in it all that made her clutch her candle even tighter, shaking so hard the hot wax splattered all over her fist.

"Jack, what do you want from me?" she asked between clenched teeth, almost savouring the pain.

"I'll tell you in a minute …now if you would be so kind as to give me your candle …"

Baffled, she spun around and found he'd discovered a silver candelabrum beneath the rubbish. He took the candle from her and put it into the candelabra, along with his own before he placed the heavy silver on the cembalo and directed his attention back to her.

***

For a moment, Jack looked thoughtful as if considering his next move, but didn't speak. Elizabeth eyed him nervously, praying silently for him to stop this and just take her back to the ship, but to her amazement, he reached for his torn shirt and pulled it to the side until a small tattoo became visible, just opposite the bullet scars she remembered having seen on the island.

"Jack, this is …," she began, but was cut off by his words.

"Tell me, Elizabeth, what's this?"

"It's a tattoo – a rather ugly one, if I may say so," she replied, hardly concealing her annoyance with his puzzling behaviour. "I really don't know what -"

"Okay, it's a tattoo," he interrupted her quickly, bending his head in acknowledgement. "But what does it show?"

"Jack, I am tired of playing these games. If we just could return to the ship, I'd be eternally grateful and -"

"Tell me what you see and we'll go back to the ship, I promise."

And when he found her hesitating, he added, "I suppose you have to come a bit closer to see it properly."

She knew he was daring her and though she was not in the mood for another one of his eccentricities, she couldn't help but being a little curious, too. He turned his body so she could see the tattoo in the candlelight, sharp black carved into golden skin, and she unconsciously reached out to touch it. _Chinese signs_ , she figured, a word, maybe, or a sentence … a name? She couldn't tell, but she kept tracing the delicate lines with her fingertips and felt him shiver, but it wasn't until he drew in a sharp breath that she woke from her trance and jumped away from him, embarrassed and shocked at herself. What had she been thinking?

"It is … it's …," she stumbled, turning her face away from him. "It's Chinese."

"Yes, it is," he confirmed and she was grateful he went on as if nothing had happened. "And what does it say?"

"I … I don't know."

"Well, I do, but I won't tell you."

At that, Elizabeth finally dared to look at him again and found he was smiling, not boastfully or menacingly, but in a way that actually made her trust him.

"Why won't you tell me?"

He blinked and she knew that this was exactly the question he'd expected her to ask.

"It's nothing more than a reminder of something that happened to me at some point in my rather eventful life," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "Might have been a stay in an oriental prison, might have been a beautiful wench or the result of several Opium-flavoured nights in Singapore. It doesn't matter to you, it only matters to me because it is part of my memory and something I have to deal with, not you."

Elizabeth wanted to say something, wanted to ask why he'd shown her the tattoo if he wasn't prepared to tell her what it meant, but he unperturbedly went on.

"However, if, one day, I should meet a person who incidentally gets to look at the tattoo and is able to read as well as to understand these words, I and said person might talk about it. The same is true for this one …"

He pulled his sleeve up and revealed a badly healed scar criss-crossing his left forearm, the same scar he'd shown her when he'd told her that there was _no truth at all_ to his legend.

Well, she knew better now.

"I won't tell you where I got it but if I am to meet someone with a similar one, we might sit together and talk about the pain."

She looked at him wide-eyed, crushed under a flood of emotions that seemed to wash all over her and somehow, nothing seemed to make sense anymore. It might have been the realization that she had really met a man in those ruins, a man that looked like Jack Sparrow, sometimes talked like Jack Sparrow but wasn't Jack Sparrow. And she didn't understand.

"Do you understand now why I told you my story?" His voice was soft now, almost as if talking to a child. "We're all covered with scars and tattoos, even though in most cases, they're invisible - which doesn't mean they're not as deep and painful as the physical ones. Your scars are still fresh, but you refuse to have them treated because you feel you deserve the pain. And you think they will heal, once you manage to ignore them. But that's not how it works. Feeling the scars is part of being alive. The moment you choose to live, you agree to a lot of fun - but also to a great deal of pain, and sometimes it might seem as if they don't come in equal proportions."

"They don't," she burst out. "And if that's life, I don't want it."

"But you see, that's the thing. You can negotiate with pretty much everyone, but not with life itself. Of course, you can always run and you can always hide, but sooner or later, life will get you. And it will always be what you make of it, the fun and the pain likewise.

We're all human, at least most of us are, if you don't count undead pirates and goddesses, but putting that aside, our species has some very unfortunate habits. We tend to kill each other, which, in most cases, results in someone dying. We fall in love at least once, and if it is only with the bottle, we hate, we hold grudges, we fight, we annoy each other – but we just can't live without life. I tried and I assure you, it has nothing to do with freedom and it doesn't make things easier. Because running from life only means running from yourself – I have to know, I died for it."

"No", Elizabeth interrupted him fiercely. "You died because I killed you!" A storm was raging inside of her, and her heart felt heavy as stone. After he had told her his story, after she had seen proof that every word he'd said was true, she felt relieved and worse than ever at the same time. For how was she to live now with the guilt of having killed him? He might not exactly be what she would have termed a good man, but after all that had happened, she could hardly claim that she was any better than him. And she didn't want him to shoulder her burden, didn't want him to take her guilt away … it was her memory, her scar, and she felt she had to suffer from it.

"No worries, I grant you, it was your doing that sent me to the locker. But you should ask yourself if it had been necessary for you to kill me if I hadn't been running. What if I had faced the consequences of what I'd done? As you said, Davy Jones' beastie was after me, not the ship, not you … ."

She looked at the tanned skin of his chest, a small line of unscarred territory revealed by his torn shirt, and for a moment, she wished she'd never seen the hidden part. Squeezing her eyes shut, she lifted her head and looked into his face, serious and with a strange kind of wisdom in his eyes she would never have expected him to possess.

"What if I had been honest with you and Will? What if I had not so desperately sought to run from my own mistakes … and from what I should have known I could not fight?"

She stared at him in disbelief, mouth slightly parted, holding her breath.

 _He could not … would not … would he?_

"Would you have killed me anyway, Lizzie?"

She was not sure if he actually expected her to answer his question, but it didn't matter anyway, for she found she could neither talk nor move.

"You would not. Because you're better than you think you are. You did what was necessary and when you said you were not sorry, you meant it. I admire you for it, and I'm grateful - I really am. Well, I might not have liked the beastie's teeth all that much, and the stay in the locker was rather … tiring, but apart from that … I've been worse."

"But … but you've been angry with me. You had every right to be. I thought you never forgave me … you said you … you didn't want my … my …"

"I know exactly what I said. I said I didn't want your empty apologies. And I still don't want them. Never wanted them, never needed them. And yes, I've been angry with you. Actually, I still am. Look at you. What have you done since you killed me? Have you faced your decision? No! You've been running ever since … from the guilt, from me, from yourself. And now you're wallowing in self-pity, chastening yourself and spending your nights pondering on how hard life has been on you, leaving you with no one but a dirty, rum-soaked pirate. Suddenly you want nothing more than to be Miss Swann again, the governor's daughter who wears the finest gowns sent over from Paris and bores herself to death at tea-parties held by young ladies who spend their time talking nonsense. Maybe this kind of life wasn't so bad, after all … now that your little trip into piracy went wrong. Terribly wrong, if I may say so. This is not what you wanted, am I right? You wanted to play the pirate, wanted your taste of freedom, but you didn't want to pay the price. And then life came and took what it was rightfully entitled to. Poor Lizzie …"

"I do not want your pity!", she spat, shocked by the brutality of his words. How could he talk to her like that? How could he hurt her in such a way and yet look at her almost tenderly, with an understanding that went beyond everything she had ever found with either Will or her father?

"So you think all I am doing here is honouring you with my pity?" He lifted his eyebrows and stepped away from her. "Do you remember why I brought you here in the first place?"

She stared at him and suddenly realized that she had completely forgotten about the story he had made up to trick her into following him to Port Royal.

"I promised you would meet someone who'd take you to England and I fully intend to stick to my words. I am here and I promise I'll get you out, even if this means that I'll have to impersonate a cleric of the Church of England to get into Kingston – I did it once and I swear I'll do it again! And if there's no other way, I'll sail you to London myself, up the river Thames, and drop you at your relative's front-door.  
But before I do that, I want you to know that it's ridiculous to believe England will change anything about your current state of mind. You might be able to run away, but not for long … as I said, you'll always bear the marks, visible or not."

Elizabeth wanted to yell at him, tell him how wrong he was, but her anger had been spent what seemed like hours ago, and what remained was a painful feeling of emptiness. She found she didn't even have the strength to convince herself that she shouldn't be listening to him, that he was only trying to irritate her, for it was only too obvious every single one of his words had actually hit the mark.

But even if there was _some truth_ to what he'd said, she felt she needed to defend herself, felt that he was thoroughly right and horribly wrong at the same time, that he understood everything and yet nothing at all.

"I don't want to return to England," she began, her voice unsteady and almost pleading. "But what else can I do? You … you've always been on your own, I mean, you do have your crew and soon enough, you'll get your ship back, and there are the girls in Tortuga, and the girls in Singapore … ."

 _Oh, she'd never have thought it would hurt so much_.

" … you'll never be alone, you're used to being chased, after all, you've been a pirate for quite some time now. But what about me? Tell me, where am I supposed to go if I stay? Look around you … that's what's left of my life. My father, Will – they're all gone. I'm all alone, so what do you suggest I'd do? Go to Tortuga and get myself a crew?"

Her last sentence was pure sarcasm, and she almost regretted she'd said it, for he looked indeed … well, hurt? He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then, a shadow ghosted over his face and he turned away, the air around him thick with disappointment.

"I see," he said while he picked up the candelabra. "We should probably return to the ship. It's gotten late and I have no intention whatsoever to spend the night in a ruin as ruinous as this one, though I have to say that the junk my dear friend Barbossa presented us with is hardly any better. Besides, I would not even dare to hope your father has a decent supply of rum in his wine cellar …"

With that, he swayed out of the room, and for a few seconds, Elizabeth was alone in the dark parlour, left with the dawning awareness that Jack had put his mask back on. He was talking with the familiar slur in his voice, a mere caricature of the soft timbre she now knew it actually possessed, and when she watched him swaggering over the remains of the door, she feared he might fall and set the house on fire.

Part of her despised him for being such a coward, demanding her to face the consequences of her own actions but unable to do the same for himself, still, deep down, she knew that this was exactly the reason he had been so hard on her. She had already started wearing her own mask, and if his was the mask of comedy, hers was its tragic counterpart, both designed to mirror an aspect of life itself and yet hardly more than a device to hide from it.

But it was too late. For both of them. Jack had taken down his mask and she had rejected him, had rejected him like she'd done the day he'd returned to the Pearl when he'd offered her a similar kind of understanding and forgiveness. It was everything she wanted, everything she needed, but she couldn't take it, much less offer the same to him.

She wondered how he could've thought her still capable of it; didn't he see that it had been her incapability to trust and be trusted that had driven Will to his sinister fate? Everyone who turned to her, everyone who expected something of her was bound to be disappointed in the end. She'd failed as a daughter and as a wife – well, as a fiancée, but the difference was slight - , and whatever Jack expected her to be, she was sure she couldn't keep up with that, either.

She was fighting back the tears, feeling worse than ever, when she left the parlour and rushed after Jack who had almost reached the passage to the entrance hall. Catching up with him, she wordlessly took the candelabra from him and watched him climb over the debris, before repeating the same action the other way round.

Elizabeth expected him to march straight out of the mansion and back to the ship, but he didn't seem inclined to do so right away. He strolled across the entrance hall, apparently without purpose, but when he reached the base of the staircase that led up to the first floor, he stopped and looked upstairs, eyeing the steps curiously. They were still intact, even though the railing was missing, but he couldn't possibly plan on going up there.

 _Or could he?_

She saw him ascending the first step and kicking the second one with his boot as if to ensure it wouldn't crumble away as soon as he set foot on it. When it actually managed to withstand his assaults, he stepped back down and turned to her.

"Forgot something," he mumbled, pointing up the staircase. "It'll only take a minute, be right back."

And with that, he thrust the candelabra into her hand, took one of the candles and set out to climb the stairs, but Elizabeth managed to grab his sleeve and hold him back.

"Jack, you're not serious, are you?"

"Why, yes, I think I am."

"This house is a ruin. I know you tend to ignore the voice of reason, but this is sheer suicide!"

There must have been a considerable amount of panic in her voice, for he seemed on the verge of saying something to reassure her before changing his mind and commenting on the issue in a way that was more appropriate for the roguish pirate he was pretending to be.

"That's why you'll be a good girl now and stay here. We don't want you to break your pretty neck, do we?"

She wanted to go after him, but stayed behind when she saw he'd reached the stairhead without causing major damage to either himself or the building. Resigned, she slumped down until she was sitting on the floor and leaning against the curtail step. Putting her candle down, she buried her face in her hands and closed her eyes, trying to block out the voice in her head that was yelling at her, telling her how stupid she'd just been.

 _For whatever he'd offered her, she knew it would have been an act of exorcism._


	3. Chapter 3

The minutes that passed seemed to turn into hours while Elizabeth sat in the entrance hall of her former home, waiting for Jack to return. _What was he doing up there?_ While the stairs had proven to be fairly intact, the same was not necessarily true for the upper floor, though it would probably not have gone unnoticed, had he caused the whole ceiling to come crashing down. Which didn't mean that he was safe, though. He might be doing something entirely stupid … she couldn't quite figure what it was, but the man who'd left her behind had been one driven by madness, the kind of man to survive being tied to a cannonball, cannibals and even death itself, but she feared that the rules that normally applied to Captain Jack Sparrow had no validity in this house. It was, after all, the hiding place of a man who'd take her to England at the risk of his own life, and as long as this man was still present, she knew the legend of a notorious pirate would be threatened. She looked over her shoulder, up the stairs and listened into the darkness, trying to make out a sound, _only a single sound_ to tell her that he was alright, but there was nothing except for the soft wind sweeping through the trees and the chirping of the cicadas floating in from outside.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around her knees, scolding herself for being such a bag of nerves. Jack was fine, presumably amusing himself with a bottle of rum or whatever he'd found up there. Why was she worrying about him, anyway? She closed her eyes and found she was feeling tired and exhausted, like she'd just come from a long walk, and she wished Jack would return soon so they could finally leave this place. It was late and the crew was probably waiting … _waiting_ … .

She felt herself dozing off, finally able to let go for a while - and there, almost indistinguishable from the silence, she could hear the arising of voices, a thousand whispers, and they all seemed to address her, telling her about a girl that had once walked these halls, a girl who'd dreamt of a pirate ever since she came over from England. A girl that was looking at her, reproachfully and disgusted, appalled by what she'd become. Elizabeth opened her eyes in horror, trying to shut the images out, but they seemed to be inside and all around her, haunting her and suddenly, she realized that Jack had been wrong. The man who hid inside the ruins of Port Royal was not alone. With him was a girl, and together they were mourning a life never lived.

 _Screaming_ , she thought she might have been screaming, but no sound elicited from her mouth and then, the visions were gone. She closed her eyes and opened them again, only to find she was alone, the entrance hall as empty and deserted as ever. Picking up the candle she'd placed beside herself, she got to her feet and pressed her back against the wall, taking long and steady breaths to calm herself. She'd probably fallen asleep and her troubled mind had produced exceptionally vivid nightmares, there was nothing to worry about that. There was no such thing as ghosts, no visions or messages from the netherworld … _no such thing_. But there … she listened intently and there was no denying it was actually there, a song – _no_ , rather the echo of a song – was floating through the hall, the very song they'd sung as children, the one she'd taught Jack on the island, but this time, it sounded like a lament to her.

 _A pirate's life for me …_

 _Never, never again_ … it had all been an illusion, a stupid childhood dream, a stupid, stupid misconception that had ruined her life. She wanted to ignore it, wanted to shut the melody out, but the harder she tried, the louder it seemed to swell and she almost dropped her candle in the sudden urge to cover her ears.

"What do you want from me?" she shouted into the darkness, instinctively closing her free hand around the handle of her sword.

And suddenly, the singing ceased, only to be replaced by a voice that was calling out for her. A voice that sounded strangely familiar, and yet like a faraway dream. Her own voice, she realized, as if part of herself was trying to break through the barriers, the very part that craved for forgiveness and resurrection.

" _Your dreams may have been an illusion,"_ it whispered, _"but freedom is not. Nor is the man upstairs …."_

She wanted to keep on believing that this was just her mind playing tricks on her, but found herselfunable to shake off the feeling that she'd finally admitted to herself she didn't want her life to be over just yet. She'd come so far, a long way from the gilded cage of her childhood to the ruins of life as she knew it and she felt exhausted, needed some time to rest and reconsider, but it was too soon to give up. _No_ , she decided, she wasn't ready to go back to England, not until she knew for sure the battle had been lost.

This was not about Beckett or about World's End, it was about choices and hers was still to be made.

The upper floor didn't look as decrepit as she'd have expected it to and Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief at the discovery that it probably wasn't in danger of collapsing anytime soon. Jack was nowhere to be seen, but with the whole front part of the house missing, he didn't have much of a choice, considering that only one of the two passages setting out from the stairhead actually led into the rear part where her room had been located.

Suddenly, a thought struck her mind. He didn't know about her room – or did he? He'd known about the picture in the parlour, so it was probably not too far-fetched to assume that he'd inquired about other locations as well, even though she could not think of a likely explanation as to why he should be interested in the remains of her earthly possessions. Elizabeth hadn't wasted a single thought on all the things she'd left behind – not since her wedding day, and even now, she hardly remembered anything substantial, just forms and colours, tastes and sounds, like the bright spots the sunlight painted across the wall when she woke in the morning, the songs the slaves in the kitchen used to sing, the heavy scent of the hedges in spring and the deep blue of the sea shimmering in the distance. No dresses or furniture, no jewellery or books, for they could be replaced far too easily to have any meaning beyond their material value. And she had never cared about that.

It was odd to see that the door to her room was still intact and closed, almost as if she'd only been away for a few hours, not for several months. Before she'd left, most of her possessions had been packed into large trunks, ready to follow her into her new life as Mrs. William Turner and she briefly wondered whether they'd ever made it into the nice little house her father had bought for them only a few hundred yards away. Thought of that house had scared her then, and it still did - a symbol of renewed captivity, a sweet prison with the underlying promise of love at the cost of freedom. She had been prepared to make the sacrifice, but fate had intervened and now she found her own personal odyssey had come to an end and led her back to the place of her childhood, strangely familiar and yet alien and distorting, as if someone had placed a spell on it.

The brazen handle felt cold under her grip and she hesitated before pushing it down, trying to prepare herself for what she was about to face. Chaos and destruction, no more forms and colours but a dusty grey mass bereft of any familiarity it might have possessed for her, had she returned before the earthquake. Or Jack, a human shape in the midst of it all, breathing and alive though he shouldn't be, and she didn't know if she could actually bear it.

But her room was empty, as empty as she'd left it. Jack had not been here, she could tell from the dust covering the floor, undisturbed by human feet ever since it had buried the brightly polished parquet, and she was surprised to find that she felt slightly disappointed. Part of the furniture was still intact, even though her beloved davenport and a dresser had fallen over and were probably broken now. Strangely enough, the big four-poster bed she'd used to sleep in hadn't suffered much; even the inevitable collapse of the four posters had spared the mattress, now hidden beneath the heavy bed-curtains covering it like a deformed blanket.

Despite everything, this was still her room – looked like her room and felt like her room, and she found she didn't care in the least about the missing windows or the fallen off pictures.

Part of her was still here, a part she had intended to leave behind when she'd decided to marry Will: The girl that had read about pirates and dreamed about freedom. She had been spared this sacrifice, she now realized. If she wanted it – really wanted it, Elizabeth Swann, the woman and Elizabeth Swann, the girl could be one again. This was what this house had tried to tell her, the silent invitation her room still held and the hidden meaning behind Jack's words, for it was as true for him as it was for her. They both could return to light and colours, to forms and tastes that were not only an illusion but part of life itself, but though she knew she wanted it more than anything, she was not prepared for it. Not yet, for it was a long journey from World's End and first she had to know if it was worth the struggle.

She closed the door again and walked further down the corridor, knowing he had to be there, somewhere. And then, she saw the light creeping from underneath the rearmost door, a feeble shimmer almost swallowed by the penetrating darkness. Grace Poole's room. The old woman, toothless and always accompanied by the faint smell of gin and rum had been paid to do the household's sewing work. When a child, Elizabeth had been somewhat appalled by her scruffy appearance, but Grace had possessed an unusually sharp eyesight and despite her inebriated state, she had never given them any reason to complain about the quality of her seams and laces.

The door was slightly ajar and she opened it carefully, feeling like an intruder when she saw him sitting on the floor, surrounded by a dozen candles he must have found somewhere between the rubbish and with his eyes fixed on something concealed by his body. Clothes, curtains and blankets were scattered across the room and in a corner, she thought she could see one of Grace's ever-present bottles reflecting the candlelight. She briefly wondered what had become of the old sewing woman. Had she managed to save herself or had she perished like so many others?

But whatever had happened to her, it didn't really answer the question Elizabeth was burning to ask: What was _he_ doing here?

„Jack …," she whispered, approaching him slowly. When he didn't respond, she went to his side to see what he was looking at. A chest, very similar to the one they'd found on Isla Cruces, only that this one didn't contain a heart, but a collection of parchments and notebooks some of which were distributed on the floor now. Jack was holding a map of some sort, while he traced the faded lines with his fingertips, so completely absorbed in his task that he didn't even seem to recognize her presence.

She blew out her candle and supported herself on his shoulder while she knelt down beside him, unsure what to say or how to begin. He flinched under her touch, still caught up in his own world and it was then her eyes fell upon the missing planks in the floor, revealing a cavity which had obviously served as a hiding-place for the chest.

"This had been your room," Elizabeth stated as a matter of fact.

"Yes." His voice was still distant, almost unreal in the sultry atmosphere he'd created around himself, and she wondered whether he would talk about the chest and its contents. When he didn't show any inclination to continue, still gazing at the map in his hand as if it was holding some indefinable secret for him, she reached out and grabbed one of the notebooks.

It was rather small in size and leather-bound, with an unlabeled cover and well thumbed pages, possibly used as a sketchbook, judging from the coal stains that littered the binding. She looked at him questioningly, unwilling to delve among his private possessions without his permission, but he didn't seem to care, nodding absent-mindedly when she flipped the book open and started to browse the pages.

It formed indeed a conglomeration of drawings and sketches, faces from a not so distant past, along with animals and landscapes that were done with great accuracy and love for detail, even though the technique might have been imperfect at times. Elizabeth regarded the drawing of an African woman, probably one of the slaves kept in the governor's household and couldn't help admiring its liveliness and spirit; it was almost as if the portrait was trying to communicate with her through the faded pages, but unable to stand the accusatory look in the woman's eyes, Elizabeth clapped the book shut and put it back into the chest.

"We called her Odette, but I don't think that was her actual name," Jack said quietly and she startled at his voice, surprised to find he'd actually taken notice of her confusion. "She worked in the kitchen, but unlike the other slaves in my father's service, she didn't want to accept her fate. One day, she tried to run away but was caught and brought back again. I don't know what they did to her." He paused for a moment, his eyes tarnished with sadness and regret. "They found her body several days later. She was dead, probably jumped off the cliffs but wasn't lucky enough to miss the rocks."

"Did you know her well?" Elizabeth asked.

"I helped her escape in the first place. When I started working for Beckett, I betrayed everything I believed in… . No one deserves to be enslaved."

Swallowing hard, he turned away from her, and she suddenly understood that the privilege of childhood dreams coming to a violent end was not hers alone. He was as aware of his mistakes as she was of hers, and even though she knew he liked to act the carefree scallywag, this was nothing but the façade of a man who'd always fought for his freedom and that of others, never to be rewarded with anything other than deception and betrayal until he'd learned to make them his own weapons. They both shared the grief and disappointment of a rebellion painfully gone awry and if "pirate" was the term to name the state they were in, they shared the brand as well – no matter whether it was invisible, as Jack had observed when they'd argued in the parlour.

She placed her hand on his arm, only covered by his shirt for he'd taken off his coat, and felt the warmth of his skin through the worn cotton.

"Who are you, Jack Sparrow?" she asked softly.

He turned his face to look at her, slowly, almost hesitantly. "Sometimes …," he whispered, "… sometimes I don't know myself. Maybe that's the reason I brought you here. Because I wanted you to tell me." He was so close now she could feel his breath on her lips.

"You are," she whispered, bending closer, "a pirate."

***

She couldn't tell whether it was him who kissed her first or if they just found each other when she felt his lips descending upon hers. It was only the lightest of touches, but she was left with the faint taste of rum and spice on her lips when he pulled back and looked at her, quizzically.

The question, though unspoken, was in his eyes and she replied by putting her hand to his face and kissing him again. He leaned into her and brushed his lips over hers, varying the pressure until she opened her mouth, sighing unconsciously. This time, without any kind of ulterior motives or feelings of guilt, there was no reason for her to rush or take the lead; _this time_ , she could do what she wished she could've done ever since she kissed him on the Pearl and give in to the nearly overwhelming desire to savour the feeling of being touched by him, kissed by him, _kissed by Jack Sparrow_ , and it was even better than she remembered it, better than she'd imagined it would be, and when his tongue finally claimed her, she buried both of her hands in his hair, tugging on his braids in a desperate attempt to pull him closer. He promptly obliged and slammed his mouth down upon hers, kissing her so thoroughly her dazzled mind thought she would never need to breath again as long as he was doing _that_ to her.

He brought his arms around her, pressing her to his body, and she couldn't help but melt into him, feverishly returning his kiss while his hands never stopped caressing her back and shoulders. And then, she felt his weight upon her and realized he was lowering her to the ground, carefully, because of the candles, and she gladly gave in, pulling him with her until they were both lying on the dusty parquet, still kissing. He shifted about until one of his knees was settled between her thighs and she started grinding against him, so absorbed in exploring his mouth that she was hardly able to spend a conscious thought on the warm sensation that was slowly conquering her insides, causing her loins to burn in a familiar ache. Her body seemed to know what to do and she was fine with it, especially now that the ministrations of his lips were no longer reserved to her mouth but shared equally with her throat and collarbone.

Her head fell to the side and she moaned when he sucked in the tender flesh right below her ear, arching up when he bit down lightly.

"Jack …," she groaned, her own voice sounding strange to her, while her hands slid under his shirt and across his shoulders, tracing down his upper arms and back to his hairless chest. He was all wiry strength and lean muscle, so different from Will who had been broad-shouldered and musclebound from years of sword-fighting practice. Not that it mattered, she thought. Not at all. If that was what the compass had been pointing to, this inconceivable nearness, this feeling of a heavy burden being gradually lifted off her shoulders, it had never lied, for now she knew it was this – _him_ – that she wanted most in this world.

He was stroking her sides now, touching her through her waistcoat and shirt, and she suddenly wished she could take those off, needed his skin on hers, because that was what it was all about, wasn't it? About the sharing and the feeling of completion, about being with someone, touching someone because you wanted it, wanted it because it was the only way to ever fill the emptiness you didn't realize was there until you got a taste of it. She'd gotten her taste now, and whatever came after that, she knew she needed it and needed it badly. Her hips moved harder against his knee, and then, a hand was pushed between her legs, causing her body to lift from the floor in a strange angle, and she let out a silent scream.

 _Oh god._

Did he know what he was doing to her? Probably yes, judging from the way his fingers cupped her and pushed upwards, and it was dirty, so dirty, but she marvelled at the forbidden pleasure of it all, wanted to beg him not to stop … _never to stop_ … and suddenly, his hands and lips were gone and he was kneeling above her, panting breathlessly.

"We better return to the ship," he said between breaths, looking down at her with heavily clouded eyes.

Elizabeth stared back at him, startled at first, but with growing horror while she slowly came back to her senses. Had she really done _that_? She must have been out of her mind, completely shameless …

' _Don't you have any dignity left?'_ she scolded herself while she sat up and drew her legs to her body, wrapping her arms around them in a protective gesture. Alright, she didn't regret she kissed him, it had been appropriate, in a way … but she should never have allowed things to go this far. How could she even have assumed that this was what Jack had offered her?

No doubt he'd had plenty of whores in his life, but he had never treated her like one; still, her behaviour during the past few minutes must have suggested to him that this was exactly what she was: a whore. And had he really been the pirate he pretended to be, he would've taken her, but he had just proven to possess a lot more decency than she did. Trying hard to appear untouched by what had just happened between them, she asked casually:

"Aren't we supposed to return to the Pearl? Your men must already be getting nervous on our whereabouts. Gibbs …"

"Not at all," he interrupted her, smiling. "You know, Ol' Gibbs and I do have an accord: Now that I have been in the locker, I am considered old enough to stay out for the night. He won't come looking for us until tomorrow afternoon. Since he won't keep to the Code anyway, I figured this was the better solution. Can be pretty shocking to wake up in the middle of the night after some … well, you know, what I mean – and then you suddenly realize you're not looking at some beautiful wench, but right into Gibb's face. So I made him promise that no matter how much he might fear for my safety, rescue missions are not allowed until at least 24 hours after my departure."

He laughed, but Elizabeth couldn't join him, feeling even worse after having heard his words. So he didn't even pretend that there was an actual reason for them to leave. He didn't want her, probably felt disgusted by her, and for some unfathomable reason, she had to fight back the tears. Though she tried to hide it, she was sure he must have seen it, because he looked at her wide-eyed for a few moments before bursting out with laughter again.

"What's so funny?" she asked, unable to believe he really had the guts to laugh at her.

"Lizzie," he said, grasping both of her hands and taking them in his while talking. "You're the best pirate I've ever seen, you'd probably beat me in any swordfight and apart from that, you're the most beautiful, headstrong woman I can think of."

 _Oh, now he'd done it._ Why wouldn't he outright tell her that she had been mistaken about his intentions? He didn't want her, so what? She didn't need his compliments to swallow that!

"And now you're almost crying … ."

"No, I AM NOT!" And while she was shouting at him, she knew he couldn't have missed the tears that were welling up in her eyes.

"Oh yes, you are, because at times, you're just a bloody stupid little girl."

"And what about bloody stupid pirates? You made me believe you … you … you tricked me in …"

She hated herself for sounding so unbelievably foolish and she expected him to laugh at her again, but he just grinned and made sure she didn't pull her hands away.

"Lizzie," he said, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. "I am not THAT good, you know? Patience has never been a particular strength of mine, and you do bloody well know that I do not give a damn about things like decorum and propriety! And believe me, if I didn't really want you – if I didn't care about you – I would have taken you right here, on the floor and been done with it.

But as I do care – which actually shouldn't come as a surprise to you -, I was as good as it was in me, which is, in fact, not THAT bad, though still not good either, and considering that I am a pirate, I think I can be proud of myself for taking in mind that even though I do not have a dress in my cabin, I at least own a bed … not a very comfortable one, but it'll do. So if you hurry up, I promise I'll prove you in no time that I actually want you more than anything … and if that won't satisfy you, you can very well ask my bloody stupid compass."

Elizabeth looked at him wide-eyed, feverishly trying to put his words together and endow them with a meaning, and when she finally realized what he'd said, she felt her heart miss a beat and looked at him through the tears, freeing her hand to wipe her eyes. She wanted to say something, tell him how much his words meant to her, then and there, but her voice failed her and the only sound she managed to accomplish was a dry sob that caused Jack's features to change into a rather solemn expression.

"If you want me as well, that is …," he added hesitantly, obviously believing he'd said the wrong thing. "I mean, you know, I may not be old enough to be your father, but close, and I know I have the unfortunate habit to enjoy vile drinks and …"

"Jack, shut up." And on the spur of the moment, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again, presuming that this was probably the only way to keep them both from talking nonsense. It wasn't long until she found herself lying on the floor again, Jack kneeling above her and fumbling with the buttons of her waistcoat while cursing whoever had made this wholly superfluous invention. Elizabeth laughed but finally took pity with him and shoved his hands away to remove the hindering piece of clothing herself, but had scarcely opened the uppermost button when he tore himself away from her again.

"No, no, no," he gasped, "Not again. We agreed on my cabin, savvy?"

She sighed and turned her head to the side, clearly frustrated now. It surely was nice to have him act the gentleman and all, but if he went on with it … well, she might very well lose courage and run away from him, no matter how much he cared. He didn't know what it was like to feel the darkness linger behind every corner, every word, every touch … and she feared it would take her over, never to be lifted again. Whatever was going to happen between them, she felt it had to happen here, in this house, because the time had come now to bring events to full circle.

"Come on now, luv," Jack urged her, already reaching for the coat he'd carelessly thrown to the side. "I have to admit I'd be pretty disappointed if you fell asleep on the floor just now."

He smiled down at her and suddenly, a thought struck her mind.

"Jack," she cooed seductively while propping herself up on her elbows. "What would you say if I told you that I also happen to have a bed in my … well, eh … room?"

"Your room?"

"Just next door - and my bed has the advantage of being comfortable, at least that's how I remember it."

A puzzling look appeared on his face and she could see he was trying to figure out what she was talking about but didn't quite succeed.

"I'd been in there before I came here," she quickly explained. "Most of the furniture is broken and there's a rather large gap where the window used to be, but the bed seems to be alright … except for the legs and the curtains, but I think we can do without, don't you?"

"Oh, well … ." Jack seemed to contemplate the matter, still sceptical, and it was obvious he really wanted to return to the ship. Unwilling to reply right away, he put on his coat and knelt down to put the parchments back into the chest before placing it back to its hiding place under the lose planks.

"Won't you take it with you?" Elizabeth asked, stumbling to her feet.

"No." He shook his head. "Better to leave the past where it belongs. And there are many more things I'd happily bury beneath this floor if it were possible … though I'd say that rum can also do the job."

 _The rum._

So that was it. She almost smiled at the thought, findinghow easy it was to see through him. Well, if her eyes hadn't betrayed her, something could be done about that.

"Want a vile drink?" she asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"What?"

"You know … this room was used by old Grace Poole for sewing. Old Grace-," she turned away and walked across the room. "- had a certain fondness for the bottle." And with that, she picked up her find and presented it to Jack: A dusty, but nevertheless intact bottle of rum.

She tossed it to him and he eyed it greedily before pulling out the plug and taking a hearty swig.

"Ol' Grace had a well-developed taste," he observed. "And I must say, I am proud of you, Lizzie."

"Why's that?"

"You've come a long way from burning a man's life elixir …"

"That was a one-time exception!" she laughed. "And I insist on payback."

He chuckled and handed her the bottle. _Well, even if it didn't help, it certainly wouldn't hurt_. And with this thought on her mind, she brought it to her lips and took a small gulp … and then another one. It tasted as awful as ever and she pulled a disgusted face at which he ripped the bottle from her hands and held it with his outstretched arm so she couldn't reach it.

"Clearly, you do show very little respect towards this divine gift."

"Oh, I do. That's why I think we should … eh … retreat now." She took his hand and smiled wickedly. "I don't want you to faint too soon."

"I never faint!"

Elizabeth grinned broadly, thinking about the night they'd both spent on the inhabited island and from the sour expression on Jack's face she knew he was doing the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An act of exorcism - finally!

Lit by the candles they'd brought with them, her room looked different. _The retreat of a long-forgotten princess,_ she thought, _a reminder of what once was and would never be again._ She remembered it all, every single chair, the cabinet, the drawer and the davenport, and though most of it was torn to pieces now, it was still something that had managed to cross the barrier between two worlds: The one that had ended and the new one that was just about to begin.

Jack's eyes wandered across the room, no doubt trying to extract some information on its former inhabitant, and Elizabeth felt exposed – for no reason at all, considering that most of her things were broken or missing anyway. He walked over to her bed and pulled the curtains away, revealing a mattress covered by an astonishingly white sheet and some rather large pillows some of which were torn, downy feathers splaying all over the place.

"Looks fine," he observed while he took off his coat and threw it over the remains of her drawer. "Much better than my bunk on that horrible junk … though I'd like to think that my bed on the Pearl is still unrivalled."

"That I cannot judge."

"Well, this time, I am hardly to blame, I suppose." He grinned saucily and she remembered the numerous occasions on which he'd actually flirted with her when they'd been together on the Pearl, heading for Isla Cruces. His behaviour had been typical Jack Sparrow and she'd taken none of it too seriously, but now she wondered whether there'd been some kind of hidden truth behind all the innuendo and wordplay.

Completely untroubled by her presence, he pulled out his pistol and carefully placed it next to the bed before unbuckling his belts and untying the pink scarf he'd wrapped around his waist. The ensemble landed rattling on the floor, along with his sword and all the curious things he carried with him. He seemed to rely on the durability of his artefacts, shoving them aside with his boot as if they were no more valuable than the rubble littering the room. He was already half done with unbuttoning his waistcoat when he changed his mind and knelt down to go through his things again until he'd found what he was looking for. Elizabeth smiled at the obvious relief that spread across his face, finding that his compass had survived the unceremonious treatment without further damage. Jack flipped it open and inspected it for a long moment, apparently satisfied with the heading the magical needle gave him.

Elizabeth leaned forward, curious on what the compass pointed to for him, but he closed it again before she could get a proper view.

"Oh no," he laughed, "That's none of your business."

"Why? I already know that it points to what you want most in this world – which, I assume, is the Black Pearl for you."

He cocked his head and looked at her inquiringly, obviously trying to determine whether she was just teasing him or if she really believed the ship was what he wanted most in this world.

"So it's not the Pearl, then?" she asked, mockingly, this time, but with an enthusiasm she found it hard to conceal from him.

"Maybe not. But … _oh_ , now that's interesting!"

At first, Elizabeth wasn't sure what he was talking about, but then, she saw that he'd spotted something underneath her bedstead. Something that caused the blood to rush into her cheeks as soon as she recognized it.

A book. He picked it up and she jumped forward to snatch it from him, but he'd seen it coming and turned around quickly so she could not prevent him from browsing the worn pages, a huge grin gradually conquering his face.

"That's very interesting indeed …," he chuckled and she thought she might die from the shame and humiliation she felt at his discovery. She'd told herself time and time again that there was nothing wrong with wanting to know how _these things_ worked, considering that she'd been expecting her wedding night. What happened between man and wife in the privacy of a darkened bedroom had not exactly been the subject of dinner conversation at the governor's, and somehow it had seemed equally wrong to mention it to Will, even though he'd been her fiancé and therefore the man she was most likely to share these pleasures with. She had been curious and, _yes_ , she had been afraid as well, so she'd asked her maid to get her the book. It was not exactly what she'd expected it to be, but it had at least provided her with some kind of basic information, though presented in a manner that seemed to suggest that the subject at hand was merely overrated and not half as exciting as some novels liked to imply. But no matter how exciting it truly was, this book was something she didn't intend to share with anyone, let alone Jack Sparrow.

"This was just for … educational purposes," she stuttered in a futile attempt to hide her embarrassment, knowing perfectly well she was just making a fool of herself.

"I see," Jack replied, sounding pensive. "But, fair Elizabeth, this is a book for young gentlemen. At least it does say so on the cover."

"It was the only one I could get here … as it were."

He seemed to contemplate the matter while he took off his waistcoat, tossing it on top of his artefacts before approaching her slowly.

"Well, you won't need it anyway," he declared, reaching out to touch her hair and placing a lose strand behind her ear. "I think I have a pretty good, not to say really outstanding idea of how it works." And with that, he started unbuttoning her vest, methodically and with no haste, his eyes fixed on her face while he watched her tensed features. She hadn't been afraid back in the sewing room when the turn of events hadn't given her enough time to spend a conscious thought on what was happening, but now, she didn't feel so confident anymore.

Though she had read about it, she had no idea how this act worked, much less the experience to keep up with the women he was used to spending his nights with. All these things they sang about in Tortuga, things so indescribably dirty and depraved that not even the "Young gentlemen's guidebook" had dared to mention them … _things only pirates and whores did_ … And though tonight, he'd proven to be a lot more of a gentleman than she'd have thought him to be, she still feared she wouldn't be able to meet his expectations.

"No need to be afraid. You will be fine, I promise …," he whispered, sensing her bewilderment and when he skimmed his hands over her shoulders, she couldn't help but give in to the feel of his touch through the thin fabric, sighing. Slowly, _oh so slowly_ , he slid the vest over her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor and never would she have thought that there could be so much to such a simple gesture. Never breaking the eye contact between them, he took her hand into his, tracing the thin lines on the inside with his thumb. His hands were rough and dirty – like hers, she suddenly realized. And she smiled at him and when he smiled back, the look in his eyes was no longer deep and unfathomable but all honesty and truth.

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers and it was like no one had ever touched her before. For everything that had happened between them or between her and Will just faded behind the inconceivable intimacy of his lips ghosting over her fingertips.

All of a sudden, it was not enough anymore to just study his face; she needed to touch him, needed to feel what her eyes had already taken in. So she gently moved away from his grip, curiously running her fingers across the beard stubbles that covered his chin, tracing his jaw line before bringing her other hand up, repeating her actions. She watched in silent wonder when he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, lips slightly parted and she couldn't help but touching them again, brushing his lower lip with her thumb.

But as much as she would have liked to devote herself entirely to that wonderful mouth of his, there were other parts of his face, undiscovered yet, that called for her attention. Like those aristocratic cheekbones, too pretty for any man and completely out of place in a pirate's face. But right here and now, he was more than just a pirate – he was the son of an Indian princess and she was surprised at how she could ever have thought that he was anything other than perfect.

And those lashes … _no_ , they were definitely not wasted in that face of his, she decided. His face was not flawless, though. The kohl smeared around his eyes did a good job in hiding all the small lines that surrounded them and she briefly wondered about his age He was older than Will and James, probably closer to her father's age than to her own. Strange how she had never thought about it, actually. But then, she still didn't care. The lines were part of him as was the scar that went just through his right eyebrow or the sore on his jaw line. And she didn't mind about any of those …

Her hands traced his cheekbones, brushing over his temples, and suddenly, the moment she touched the edges of the scarf, his eyes flew open and he staggered backwards, keeping himself out of her reach.

"No!"

"Jack," Elizabeth cried, astonished. "What's wrong?"

"No, no, no …," he replied, back to smiling but with the panic still visible in his eyes. "The scarf stays on."

"Why? What on earth have you hidden beneath there? A treasure? A particularly nasty bunch of spiders?" she chuckled, pretending to be amused. Though she sincerely hoped he didn't ruin a moment like that, just for amusement.

"As it is – no! But I'm afraid you won't find out since – as I already said – the scarf stays on."

He reached around his head to grab the knot as if to ensure she wouldn't be able to rip it away. A strange gesture, even for him, and there was still fear in his eyes.

"Believe me," he continued, his voice soft and pleading, "you wouldn't want to know anyway."

"No …," she replied, lying. "I would not." And smiled. He wouldn't go back into hiding, she wouldn't let him. But today, he had revealed more of himself than she ever would have thought there was to reveal. The scarf was still part of his legend and she would allow him to keep it just a little longer. For tonight, it didn't matter.

Leaning forward, she tentatively brushed her lips over his and she felt his hands tangling in her hair, pulling her into an almost violent kiss and she knew she was acting as his rum, a simple device to drown the past in a few moments of precious drunkenness. It was all crudity and edges, teeth and blood, and she would never have thought that a kiss could be like that, not a way to express love or lust, but an act of brutal honesty and sheer desperation. And she was grateful he'd shown her, grateful because it was what she needed, what she'd longed for ever since they'd entered this house. _Exorcism_.

His hand wandered over her back and came to rest on her hips, pulling her to him in a rhythm that matched the strokes of his tongue and she could feel him hard against her groin.

"Told you I wanted you," he said breathlessly, pulling back from the kiss and directing his mouth to her throat, sucking and nibbling until she feared her legs might fail her, and she clung to him as if he was the only thing separating her from a yawning abyss. He urged her backwards until she could feel the bed pressing into the hollow of her knees, but before she could fall, he quickly flipped her round and suddenly, he was lying on the edge of the mattress with her on top, straddling him.

"Jack," she gasped, only to be completely lost again when he slightly pushed his hips up to direct her attention to _what_ exactly she was sitting on.

When his hands came to rest upon her buttocks, pressing her down into his crotch, her mouth flew open and she gasped for air while the pooling warmth between her legs turned into a throbbing ache, causing her to shift impatiently.

"Eager, are we?" Jack chuckled, his hands moving across her hips and to the waistband of her breeches.

"I'm …," she stuttered. "I'm … still wearing my boots."

"Me, too, luv," he grinned, the gold of his teeth reflecting the candlelight. "But no need to put them off, right now. But if you insist on shedding some clothes …"

He started tugging at her shirt and she froze momentarily when she felt one of his hands slide inside, coming to rest on her stomach. _Warmth_ , a wonderful warmth was radiating from his body, and she watched him from behind flittering lids while his fingers drew small circles around her navel. She shivered at the touch of cold metal when his rings met her skin, the back of his hand brushing over her ribs, travelling higher, _still higher_ , and she realized he was going to touch her breasts, the mere thought of it sending sparks down her body and right into her loins. Her hips pressed down on their own accord and when she did that, Jack's eyes flew shut and his mouth opened in a silent gasp.

"Do that again," he whispered, and she did, bending over to stroke his face, sweaty in the heat of the Caribbean night while she ground her hips into his. He pulled her down until she was lying flat on his chest, and then both of his hands found their way underneath her shirt and onto her bare skin, gripping her sides and stroking up and down while her body slid over his. It felt nice, _really nice_ , and _oh_ … she knew the feeling, had experienced it a dozen times during those forbidden moments when she'd secretly touched herself, and she wriggled her hips, trying to find the spot again … _and again_ …. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face against his throat, his braids leaving strange textures on her cheek while her lips trailed across his skin, and she didn't even care to stifle the moan that emitted from her mouth when his hands gripped her buttocks and drove her against him.

His hips came up to meet hers, his hands guiding them into a faster rhythm, and she blindly clutched his shirt while the pleasure was steadily building, spreading from the dampness between her legs into every single corner of her body until even her brain seemed rendered useless, devoted to nothing but what was happening between them, then and there.

"Luv," he whispered into her ear, "Please let me take off your shirt."

He wrapped his arms around her and sat up, pulling her with him and Elizabeth slowly opened her eyes and looked into his, clouded with desire and something else, something she wouldn't allow herself to think about, _not just yet_ , but it made her trust him and she lifted her arms so he could pull the shirt over her head.

Tossing it carelessly across the room, he reached for her shoulders and held her away from his body, lowering his eyes to her bared breasts and stomach. It felt as if something was ripped open, something she'd been taught to hide for nearly all her life, something she'd been ashamed of, and now Jack Sparrow, _a pirate of all people_ , was looking at it with unveiled curiosity, causing her cheeks to redden in embarrassment. Most likely, she wasn't what he would have termed a pretty wench, too skinny and boyish to catch his eye in a Tortuga alley, but there was nothing but admiration and need on his face when he placed his hands on her breasts, her flesh almost pale against his weathered fingers.

She wanted to look, wanted to savour the picture, but her eyes closed in passionate bliss when his hands wandered over her body, spreading across her lower back while his mouth descended upon her breast. And when she thought she would die from the torturing pleasure of it, his tongue darted out, circling her nipple until her fingers tangled in his hair to pull him closer, urging him to do something she couldn't even name.

"Don't stop!" she whispered, her voice hoarse and foreign in her own head.

"Not going to, luv." And she felt him grin against her body, his beard tickling her skin when he returned his attention to where she needed it, drawing her nipple between his teeth and biting down lightly. She moaned in earnest then, arching her back to push herself further into his mouth, and he took hold of her hips, pressing her down against that manly part of his, already hard and waiting for her.

 _Please … oh, please …_

She couldn't tell whether she was really begging him or if it was just her addled brains, but it was quickly becoming too much, him touching her in all those forbidden places and the maddening dampness where she needed him most, that place his hands hadn't explored, yet, though they were close now … _so close,_ resting on her thighs while he licked his way over to the breast still weeping for his attention. His thumbs started to stroke her through her breeches, drawing closer to her centre but never quite arriving there, and the world faded into a mere agglomeration of heat and colours in which her body didn't exist but for the purpose of surrendering to the sweet delirium he was subjecting her to.

He kissed his way up to her throat, roughly, his teeth scraping over her skin, and she marvelled at the pain, digging her nails into his shoulders while he dragged his lips across her jaw-line and against her ear.

"Time to take our boots off," he breathed, shoving her off him and for a long moment, she couldn't move, just lay there while her body retrieved its contours, leaving her with the painful awareness of an aching sensation spreading from her loins into every single fibre of her being. She turned to her side and reached for his body, only to find he was gone. Panicking, she heaved herself into a sitting position and found he was standing in front of the bed, already bereft of his boots and shirt which seemed to form the grotesque heap on the floor right next to him, and just about to take his breeches off. A small voice inside her head told her to look away because a young lady wouldn't dare to watch something that was to happen in chaste darkness and underneath several layers of blankets, but the desire to see him was too strong for her to overcome and she gave in to the pleasantly naughty feeling of witnessing this entirely forbidden and yet strangely intoxicating ceremony.

***

Naked, his body was like a continent in itself, smooth coastlines and sharp edges, marked landscapes next to uncharted territory, and she found herself drawn to the mystery and adventure it seemed to promise, the underlying danger only fuelling her need to explore every inch of it. It was like a secret revealed to her, a secret safely kept from young ladies until their wedding-night, never to be talked about openly and never to leave the protecting covers of a private bedroom. She knew it would've been proper to blush now and turn away in embarrassment, but Jack didn't seem to be ashamed of his body and neither was she. The term wouldn't have applied to any man she'd met so far, but there could be no denying the fact that he was outrightly beautiful.

She now discovered that she hadn't seen all of his tattoos; apart from the bird on his right forearm and the Chinese inscription on his chest, there was a ship – probably the Pearl – on his left shoulder and, most notably, a snake that wound itself across his hip and thigh. She traced its outline with her eyes, fascinated by the artistic accuracy of the image and amazed by its liveliness, almost moving with his muscles when he stepped closer. Taking a deep breath, she reached out to touch it, nothing more than a feather brushing across his hip, but he shivered and she pressed her palm against his skin, aroused by the sheer awareness of how close she was, close to what was probably the best-kept secret of it all, the very core of what made this act the subject of the prosecution and covertness it received, and when she finally dared to look, she found _he_ deserved nothing of it.

There was nothing strange or disgusting about that part of his, hard and alive against his stomach, and she was grateful when he sensed her curiosity and took her hand to wrap it around his shaft.

"Just … touch me …," he hissed between clenched teeth and she did, marvelling at the softness of his flesh and the vivid pulsing beneath her grip while she stroked him, hesitantly, at first, but more firmly when she felt him thrash helplessly into her hand. She reached around his body and caressed the back of his thigh, resting her head against his stomach while she tried to settle into a rhythm, listening to his quickening breath. His hand tangled in her hair, keeping her close and when she brought her lips to his skin, suckling, like he'd done with her before, he moaned and she felt his muscles quiver underneath her hand. She realized she was in control now, feeling strangely powerful and almost unbelievably aroused by the mere thought she could make him feel like _that_. And then she remembered something she'd heard the men on the "Empress" talk about. It had sounded rather appalling, back then, but now it didn't seem to be such a bad idea, not when he was already thrusting into her hand, completely at her mercy. She stilled her movements and with a wicked grin, she took her hand away and brought her mouth down upon him.

He stiffened momentarily and gasped, clearly taken by surprise at her unexpected endeavour, and she smiled inwardly, running her tongue over his length, tasting him. Strange and unfamiliar, yes, but wholly and entirely _him_ , and she wrapped her lips around the head, feeling both of his hands in her hair now, but before she could decide on what to do next, he'd pushed her away.

"Do you have only the slightest idea what you're doing?" he panted, struggling to regain his composure.

"Actually … no. But I figured I might try anyway." To tell the truth, she felt rather offended by this renewed rejection. He had quite obviously enjoyed it, so why interrupt her again? He might have shown her what to do, but she found she didn't like to be pushed away in such an unceremonious manner.

"Then let me tell you something: You're torturing an old man." And he smiled one of his golden smiles, even more irresistible in the candlelight and within seconds, her anger seemed to vanish into thin air.

"So you didn't like it, then?"

"Well," he grinned. "The thing is, I liked it a little too much." He knelt down and took hold of her hand as if he was going to propose marriage to her before he went on. "Dearest Lizzie, feel free to do this to me for the whole night and whenever you like, but not just now. Because, if I let you continue, this will be over sooner than you can say 'Pirate' – _oh_ , and if you were worrying about _that_ : You're doing an absolutely superb job. But I'd have expected nothing less from a woman so ready to be married."

She laughed and slapped him playfully, which caused him to duck and before she knew what was happening, he'd pulled her boots off and tossed them over his shoulder.

"You're still wearing too much."

And within seconds, she was lying on the bed again, gasping and writhing beneath him while he fumbled with her breeches. With a triumphant cry, he finally shoved them over her hips, closely followed by her undergarments, and she held her breath when she felt his hands on her breasts, caressing their way down across her stomach and brushing lightly over her pubic hair before sliding down the inside of her thighs and back up again. She moaned when she felt his fingers close to her moist centre, drawing little circles over bare skin but still denying her the attention she was almost weeping for, and when they finally ghosted over her folds, she arched her back in complete abandonment, unable to contain herself any longer.

Jack smiled and bent down to kiss her, a soothing caress before he took his hands away and laid down at her side, pulling her towards him so her back was pressed against his chest. She felt like her body was on fire, shifting restlessly in a silent plea to end this agony while he brushed her hair away and planted feathery kisses all over her shoulder.

"You're far too tense, luv," he whispered into her ear, his hand stroking across her belly now, solid and warm and oddly comforting. "Try to relax. It will feel so much better if you do …"

"I …," she gasped, "I can't …"

"Yes …" And his hand slid lower, coming to rest on her private parts. "You can."

She felt she was losing ground when his fingers parted her folds, but there was his voice, telling her to breathe, and suddenly, the aching desire faded into a pleasant arousal that seemed to grow with every new sensation.

"That's it …," he said almost tenderly and then, the world became awash with feelings all new and exciting, a whole universe dedicated to his lips on her throat and his fingers on her most intimate parts, circling the centre of her pleasure with teasing expertise. She wanted to savour this moment, lying perfectly still with her eyes closed, lips slightly parted and concentrating solely on the fact that it was _him_ doing this to her, _him_ whose arms kept her from being carried away by the waves washing over her, but she couldn't stop her hips from moving on their own accord, drawing his hand into a dance the steps of which none of them needed to be taught.

"You're beautiful like this," he breathed against her neck and she felt overwhelmed by what he'd come to mean to her, not just tonight but ever since she'd known him – which might have been forever or a day, it didn't matter anymore, not now that he was with her, finally home at the end of a long and painful journey.

She felt him reach between their bodies and though she could not see what he was doing, she knew he was touching himself and the thought almost sent her over the edge. His breathing quickened and his movements became unfocussed while she writhed beneath his touch, moaning when he bent over to kiss her and suddenly, she was on her back again with Jack kneeling above her. He pulled back from the kiss and looked at her, the question, though unspoken, clearly visible in his eyes and she nodded, wrapping her arms around him to tell him she wanted this as well, _wanted it more than anything_ and there was nothing but affection displayed on his handsome features when he brought their bodies together until she could feel his hardness pressing against her entrance.

When he started moving, this time without the reassuring presence of both of their breeches, she tightened the grip around his shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the pain she knew was to come now. But the only thing she felt was his warm breath upon her lips. And then he was kissing her again, slowly, almost hesitantly, and she couldn't help but give in to the warm sensation spreading across her insides again. She completely melted against him, her fingers no longer bruising his shoulders but tangled in his hair, trying to pull him closer, _still closer,_ and suddenly it felt as if he could never get close enough. When his kiss grew deeper, more passionate than he'd ever kissed her before, every conscious thought faded and her hips started moving on their own accord, pressing against him until she felt a small tinge and then her dazzled mind realized that he was no longer moving against but already inside of her.

It didn't exactly hurt, but the feeling of it was unlike anything she had experienced so far and it took her a few moments to get used to it. Jack never broke the kiss, but his movements stilled and there was his hand, stroking comfortingly through the damp strands of hair that were sticking to her sweaty temple. His lips trailed over her cheek and she sighed unconsciously when the cool metal of one of his trinkets brushed over her bared breasts.

"Are you alright?" His voice was rough and thick with lust, a hoarse whisper against her ear.

"Yes …"

This seemed to be all the invitation he needed for he pulled her into another bruising kiss and started to move inside her, settling a slow but steady rhythm she soon found herself responding to. At first, the kiss and the overwhelming feeling of having him so close seemed to be all the sensation she needed, but then she felt the pleasure building again, different and more subtle than when he'd touched her before, and she arched her back in a futile attempt to rub herself against him.

She moaned in frustration when he pulled his lips away and buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath warm and steady against her throat. He shifted on top of her until his hips were pressing into hers and she gasped when he began moving in short, shallow thrusts, providing exactly the kind of friction she had so desperately sought while she let herself be drawn into a heady, dreamlike state, boneless and drifting, surrounded by nothing but warmth and Jack. She could have went on like this forever, eyes half-open to watch the flickering figures the candlelight painted across his back, fingers ghosting restlessly over golden skin, drawing a map over a network of scars and memorizing every single detail until she was no longer sure where his body ended and hers began.

It felt like being on a small boat floating along the coast, already skimming over the waves but never quite reaching the open sea and none of them seemed inclined to end this languid dance until Elizabeth suddenly felt her rhythm no longer matched Jack's. His breath against her skin had grown ragged and his thrusts more urgent, almost as if he'd desperately tried to hold back but now had reached a point where there was no turning back for him. She tried to keep up with his movements, but he stilled and tore himself away from her, gasping, "Not good!"

Bewildered, she reached for him, but he managed to withdraw from her grip, looking at her with a feverish expression in his eyes.

"Turn 'round …," he said, his voice deeper than usual and she complied, too far gone already to even question his request. As long as he didn't leave her like this, shaking and unable to form a clear thought – as long as he finished _this_ , she didn't really care about anything at all.

She felt him parting her legs and before she could even realize what was happening, he had wrapped an arm around her middle and pulled her hips up. When he entered her again, she buried her face in between her crossed arms and moaned, unable to contain herself any longer. Never had she felt so completely free from shame and fear, reduced to body and emotions, and it was nothing like she'd imagined it would be, nothing like the descriptions she'd found in the "Young Gentlemen's guidebook". There was no word for the way his fingers found the right spot, right above where their bodies joined, no word for the feelings they caused, rubbing and caressing her tortured flesh until she couldn't help but bite down into the back of her hand, suppressing a scream so animalistic and inhuman the mere thought of it almost scared her.

His fingers moved in time with his thrusts and she squeezed her eyes shut, giving in to the overwhelming sensations that ran through her, filled her until it became almost too much to bear. She wanted to do something, say something but she could neither move nor talk, and then the muscles in her thighs seemed to give way, but there was Jack, pressing her to his body, keeping her with him and suddenly, it was over. She thought she might have screamed, but maybe it was just what she felt like, for surely you didn't fall without screaming, and she did fall, fell and fell, and when she reached the ground, weight- and boneless, he was there to catch her.

He carefully put her down and cradled her to his side, but she had barely time to catch her breath when he flipped her round and thrust into her again, his face buried in the crook of her neck. And there was only him, his weight on her body, his breath on her skin, hot and ragged, and the beat of his heart against her chest, inside and all around her. He was alive, warm and alive in her arms and there was no way for her to tell how much it meant to her, then and there.

Her fingers restlessly ghosted over his back, slick with sweat, and she could feel all of his scars, the old and the new, the obvious and the hidden ones. She brushed his hair away and turned her head so her cheek was pressed to his, rough, but warm and comforting at the same time, and she closed her eyes and inhaled his scent, the salt, the rum and the sweat, realizing they were a tangled mass of flesh and hair, of sweat and tears, of memories and hopes, and while their fates intertwined, the demons of the past – the fear, the hopelessness and the guilt -disappeared forever.

"Let me see your face," she whispered, feeling the sudden urge to share this moment with him, and then, after what might have been several minutes or nothing more than a few seconds, he lifted his head and a wave of tenderness washed over her when she saw that his features were softened by an expression of utter vulnerability. His eyes were closed and rendered mysterious by the broad smears of coal on his lids, his lips were pulled back in concentration and she wondered how many people there were who had actually seen him like this.

She was fascinated by the way the expression on his face changed while his thrusting sped up, shifting from concentration to something that might have been close to actual pain, and she held on to his shoulders while he seemed to climb higher in a steady pace, taking her with him as far as it would go. When she saw his mouth fly open in a silent gasp, she knew that it was over. He pulled out and moved against her hip once, twice, and then, she could feel something warm and sticky against her stomach before he collapsed on top of her, panting heavily.

She wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat in the darkness but with the certain knowledge that the colours would never be gone again, not as long as she could remember this. If life itself could be reduced to a form or an act, it was what they'd just shared, bodies and breath, pleasure and pain, sweat and kisses, and she almost felt bereft of something vitally important when he finally rolled off her body, cradling her head to his shoulder while his lips ghosted over her forehead.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence between them was neither heavy nor menacing, rather the display of a newly found intimacy that didn't require the use of words or grand gestures to define the nature of a feeling.

***

Elizabeth had no idea how long they remained like that, but in the end, Jack was first to move, propping himself up on his elbow to eye her with a boyish grin on his face.

"You look somewhat messy," he observed and she looked down at herself, finding she was still sticky with his seed.

"Well, hardly my fault, I'd say. And besides, you don't look much better," she replied and pointed to his hip, reminding him of the fact that he'd collapsed on top of her.

He pulled a face and she laughed, now convinced that whoever had wrote the "Young gentlemen's guidebook" didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. The whole act was not only as exciting as some novels tried to imply, it was even better and besides that, it was not in the least a "sacred duty" or "the natural consummation of marriage" but a wonderful and even funny thing that involved lots of sweat, saliva and other juices, not to mention that after you'd done it, nothing would ever feel embarrassing again.

"Alright," he sighed. "Just give me a second."

She watched him get up from the bed and found she was still intrigued by the sheer perfection of his body, the scars only adding to his uniqueness. He looked around and finally picked up a piece of cloth that turned out to be her undergarments, ripping them apart.

"Hey!"

"Oh come on, nobody will see that you're wearing nothing underneath." Grinning mischievously, he bent down to wipe her stomach clean, then repeated the same action on his hip.

"Better now?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

"I still feel like I got overrun by a horde of heavily armed pirates …," she admitted, coming to realize how tired she really was.

"So I managed to wear you out?" His hands brushed over her hip tentatively and she couldn't help but feel amused at his pompous attitude.

"No," she said, pretending to be serious. "I merely wanted to imply that it's pretty hot in here."

She waited for him to make some witty remark, but he just closed his eyes and yawned, every bit as tired as she was. Getting up again, he patted her affectionately on the thigh and turned to blow the candles out.

When she felt him at her side again, Elizabeth shifted closer and he put an arm around her waist, sighing contently.

"Jack," she whispered, suddenly in need to hear his voice. "Please tell me a story."

And he did, his words taking on the scent of sandalwood and patchouli, the sound of the sea and the longing for adventure on a faraway shore while she drifted off to sleep, peacefully and unafraid of what the morrow might bring, for together, they had braved the devil and death itself and she knew they could do it all over again.

The first thing she saw when she woke in the morning were the bright spots the sun painted across the wall, holding the promise of a warm and sunny day. She must have slept longer than usual, for the heat had already conquered the room and she found she had divested herself of the blanket which lay crumpled around her feet. Stretching leisurely, she wondered why Estrella hadn't come to wake her up. And then, it dawned on her that something was wrong. Something was missing … her nightgown! Not only was she completely naked, there were also bloodstains on her thigh - and a strange soreness between her legs.

"Good morning, luv!"

She sat up in panic and looked around wide-eyed, trying to make out the owner of the strangely familiar-sounding voice and when she finally saw him, sitting in the window frame and wearing nothing but his breeches, she let herself sink back on the bed and covered her face with both of her hands. So it hadn't been a dream, after all ...

She had really done it, given herself to Jack Sparrow, a pirate, and, _worst of all_ , - she didn't even regret it, no matter how hard she tried. A warm smile gradually spread across her face while she remembered all the details, the touch of his hand and the taste of his kisses, and when she took her hands from her face, looking at the puzzled expression on his own, she felt nothing but affection for him.

"No good morning kiss?" she asked, smiling at his obvious confusion.

"Come here and you'll get one," he replied, relaxing. "I just figured I'd better stay out of reach, in case you intended to slap me."

Getting to her feet, she noted that her body seemed strangely limp, not to mention the pain between her legs that made it hard for her to walk. She staggered over to him, feeling a bit awkward at her nakedness but then remembering he'd already seen her anyway, and the thought made her smile again.

When she'd finally arrived at his side, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, the look on his face suggesting that he was up to something.

"Wasn't that a bit … chaste?" she cooed, giving in to the game he obviously intended to play.

"Oh, I can see what you mean … ." And with that, he pulled her to his body and kissed her on the mouth until both of them were completely out of breath.

"Good morning!" she panted, leaning against his shoulder while he stroked her back and she readily gave in to the renewed waves of arousal when she felt his lips on her throat, trailing down over her collarbone and back to her jaw-line. She pressed herself against him, sliding her hands down his sides and to the waistband of his breeches, but when she was just about to pull them down, he stepped back, pushing her away.

"Not now." He was breathing hard and there was something in his eyes she could not quite name, a seriousness that was so unlike him it actually scared her. He took her hand and led her over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and she followed suit, feeling like a little girl expecting a lecture from her father.

"Lizzie, we need to talk," he said, sounding grave, and she immediately went pale. _So that was it, then. It was over._ He'd tell her to go back to England and … _no_ , she couldn't let that happen!

"Jack, I …," she began, but he took hold of her shoulders, silencing her.

"No, listen to me first. I realize I am not what you would call a respectable suitor … I am, after all, a pirate and as such, I am chased by the Royal Navy, the East India Trading Company and a lot of other people all over the seven seas and beyond, which means that my life can't exactly be termed stable and quiet. Besides, it is not in me to settle down, not anymore … I am probably older than you might guess and it's hard for me to change certain … habits. I can't deny I've been with plenty of women, some of them whores and I've also been with men. I am not asking you to understand any of that because I realize you probably can't … but I want you to keep these things in mind when I ask you to … to … "

He bit his lip and looked away from her, his tense features indicating that he was struggling with himself, and when he faced her again, she could see the fear in his eyes.

"Stay with me, Lizzie," he finally whispered. "Not … not as my wife, for I don't believe in marriage, but as my friend … and lover."

Elizabeth found it impossible to look at him, completely startled by what he'd just said.

 _Stay with me …_

So he really wanted her with him. _Friend_ , he'd called her … and _lover_. She couldn't believe it, tried to find a different meaning to his words, but they remained what they were: Not a promise, but an offer and a plea, and she felt her heart beat twice as fast when she finally dared to look at him, his eyes still full of unasked questions and unspoken fears.

"Yes," she replied, meeting his gaze. "I'll stay with you. Not because I have no place else to go, but because I want it. I want to be with you."

She held her breath and looked at him expectantly, but he didn't move, his face still grave and shadowed with doubt.

"It won't be easy and frankly, I don't know if I have it in me to make obligations to anyone, let alone a woman," he said hesitantly, shaking his head. "But damn it if I didn't try!"

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, and when she pressed his cheek to his, his beard rough on her skin, she knew that the ghosts had left this place forever.

What remained was a chest full of memories and the faint echo of a song, nothing more than the shadow of a whisper in a darkened hallway, and she thought she could live with that.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Still can't believe it's over … but that's the end. I guess this is a great place to thank all those who've helped me with this story, first of all my wonderful beta sparrowsswann who introduced me to the basic laws of English punctuation and was always prepared to provide me with compliments and concrit. Without her, this story would never've been finished.
> 
> Many thanks also to my friend True Romance for many, many discussions about this story and a first opinion on each part. I think it is mainly due to her influence that I actually finished a multi-chapter fanfiction for the first time in my life!
> 
> For this chapter (and in general) I have to specifically mention artaxastra to whom I owe the idea that Jack may seem closer to Governor Swann's age than Elizabeth's (yes, I know this is not exactly canon, but I prefer "my" Jack in his late thirties or early forties). Furthermore, the "Five Nights Out in Tortuga"-series have inspired this story to a great deal.
> 
> And, finally, my thanks go to everyone who has read and reviewed "Exorcism" here or elsewhere. Your concrit was more than appreciated and hopefully helped to improve this story, and your compliments kept me alive while busy with university work and other creepy stuff! Thank you so much, again!
> 
> There are so many wonderful authors in this community, and I really feel honoured to be a member of it!
> 
> I might write a commentary-track for "Exorcism" in the future, so maybe there's more to come on this story, though no new chapters, sorry. I prefer to leave it to the reader's imagination what becomes of them. Maybe they break up after 2 weeks, maybe Elizabeth steals the Pearl and sails away alone, maybe Jack gets hanged in New England, maybe Elizabeth dies in childbirth – or, maybe, they'll live happily ever after!


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